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The Flame

by itcametomeinadream 

Posted: 11 November 2009
Word Count: 41
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The touch of that hand on my shoulder tells me.

I am a flame
Limbo dancing under the way to death
In sparks: orange, red and steel
Buried under the brickwork.

Dwindling to grey
Childlike
Tiny under the weight of ash.






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michwo at 08:16 on 23 September 2017  Report this post
Andy,
Thanks for your comment on 'The Poet Reclining' by the way.  I thought the least I could do was have a look at one of yours to return the favour.
I've sort of told myself a story with this.  Could the hand on the shoulder be the strong arm of the law?  Is the person being or watching the flame on waste ground somewhere?  What crime has this person committed?  Is he a vagrant arrested for vagrancy?  Has he been burning stolen goods of some sort  or something incriminating anyway?  None of this may apply, of course, and you may have had a quite different scenario in mind.  I personally gravitate towards fixed forms, e.g. sonnet, haiku as containers for what I want to express.  Free forms like this intimidate me sometimes.
The nearest I've come to 'free' recently is a four-line poem I wrote on Thursday called "Autumn Equinox":
the seesaw of the seasons
comes to rest again
a temporary balance
that I always want to last
Almost a haiku, but not quite! 
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