It begins as a pile of dry sticks and leaves
As dry as dust
As silent as the void
It seems to have no purpose
But that is all soon to Change
A small red spot on a tiny stick
Seemingly insignificant
But within this thing is bound power
Power to create
Power to destroy
It must be used very carefully
Combining with friction and the air we breathe,
It complies with the natural laws of this world
Which cause it to burst into brilliant shades
Of red, yellow, and orange
Slowly it is lowered to the wood
The colours lick over the leaves
Patiently consuming everything they touch
Soon the greater logs begin to burn
The colours grow
Filling the space surrounding
Great tongues protrude from this colour
Tasting the air like millions of serpents
There is a sound of relief
As the gases release from the wood
Swelling to a greater and greater height
Like the explosions of a miniature Vesuvius
But it cannot last
Soon it has lessened
Its former glory lost
Diminished to a swirling mass of embers
Spiraling around in their secret dance
A vague reflection of what was
It will never be the same again
Even the coals die out eventually
Just as the remains of a giant are
Nothing but a pile of stones
The charred vestiges of this Fire
Are long since dead
They are reduced to blackened ashes
Susceptible to the slightest Wind
They are caught up
And blow away
Then there is Nothing
And the site of the Fire is as it was
As dead as dust
As silent as the Void
It Has Burned Out
©2004 Caleb Warner. All Rights Reserved.