It begins with a trickle
A small surge of light

And enters the room at the edges


Conversations falter
As they place on the altar

All of their flaws, their hurts, their pledges



Hedging bets, with guilty frets,

The Fire starts to stir

To spark,
     to grow,
     to arc,
          to blur


With tightly closed eyes,
Reaches up toward the skies,

And down around the corner forming,
Curving slightly, glowing, swarming,


Burbling nightly,
Flowing brightly,

A river of fiery lights,


Inverted, on the ceiling,
The intercessors kneeling,

O'er metaphorical fights...


O collective vision
With an unknown meaning

As intuitive as fission
For wizened guide with spiritual leaning