deborah-andrews

It is the brush
that still grows
and slowly dies
from the hazel
string of fire.
Like a violin,
it fills the entire room
with electrity
red-hot, oxygen
making it grow
stronger and stronger.
Until a burst of thunder
claps for an encore.
It must seem to not seem
like that ream
of paper, lying 
on the carpet, blank
and waiting for a soul 
to touch it with
his fingers
and poke it 
with a pencil, and 
then, again and 
again.
Until he meets
himself in the middle,
and cries out 
Halleluia!
It's over, 
the flames 
disappearing
behind the curtain.