Mind warned me that flames play games––
Flames master them;
Learn from the broken and dead,
And move faster to the weak spots of their present-day victims:
Eyes watched perception of orange transform to gold;
Red was ambre, depending on the day, maybe ruby.
The colour palette of the fire was a chest of gems, jewels, pricelessness.
Dance, bend, sway––flames wrapped their fiery hands around my waist;
Together, the ice of me against the blistering flames, told stories never told:
Sentimentality, love (now, how could I name it so?), exposure.
From a far, the fire shouts,
But when it is at the final steps of the gasoline pathway, it fiercely whispers through clenched fangs.
Flames do play games:
They enjoy poker as you never know if you are in the lead or if they are ten steps ahead;
They snicker at your pain as you dispute with inner-self, confused, whether or not to believe that there is more to you than destiny shows:
Hellish flames spoke temptingly, beautifully.
I was convinced to tell myself that all they said was true...
Though, yet, but
Until I melted, and flushed them away, I never grew.
Flames numbed my palms, I picked them up, formed a ball,
And I threw flames, fire, **** far down:
Through the marble,
Through the mirror ground.
I mentally wrote this in the shower; it is soooooo bad.
This was planned to go in another direction, one less harsh and more romantic, but somehow it ended up like this with a wierd, violent theme (if that makes sense).
Also, I had more of a prose mindset when I added on to this so if this does not sound poetic then welppppp.
Yeah... okay bye.
(Maybe leave some comments, and a like?)