You burn the wick at both ends, some days.
A golden crown of flame rests upon your head.
Where you walk, the sun follows,
splitting the darkened vale with your presence.
Your laughter is thunder breaking the silence.
Like the dawn, you rise slowly,
but ever so steady.
Then — like wildfire — you are gone,
racing across the horizon,
Blazing a path only you can see,
lighting the way for the unsure.
You are restlessness in stillness,
dancing between creation and ruin —
not because you must,
but because royalty must lead.
Wear your crown with dignity.
For You are a.
Child of fire
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 1:44 AM UTC
You burn the wick at both ends, some days.
A golden crown of flame rests upon your head.
Where you walk, the sun follows,
splitting the darkened vale with your presence.
Your laughter is thunder breaking the silence.
Like the dawn, you rise slowly,
but ever so steady.
Then — like wildfire — you are gone,
racing across the horizon,
Blazing a path only you can see,
lighting the way for the unsure.
You are restlessness in stillness,
dancing between creation and ruin —
not because you must,
but because royalty must lead.
Wear your crown with dignity.
For You are a.
Child of fire
