Snuff it out but almost,
For the fighting flame is nature's Arc de Triomphe :
A testament towards burning tenacity of the human faculty.
If you take a moment,
To stare at the shadows,
Dancing outward from the burning dead-forgotten vessel,
You can see rage-flame fading,
Dissipating vehemence with distance from the warm womb,
Transforming and contorting,
Turning tides,
Within the same breath, from fighting back the shadows,
The dedication of the
Turning against the light-blooded allies,
This. Is. War.
A war that never changes,
battles that never end in a victor,
Only multiple losers,
Some of which have
Albeit fading,
The high of conquest flickering,
Another tongue into the dark,
Extinguished by the natural order,
Put out by time and time again.
Grab the hot heat,
The fire from the dragon's belly that flees it's mother,
Seeking refuge in the darkness it does not know,
And give it a home.
Hold it close;
Contain the sacrament and hold it close to the holy host,
For Prometheus would roll over in his
If he came to know we had re-gifted his sacrifice.
The flame is the the light that keeps the shadows of the empty indifference,
Our whore of a Mother Nature at bay.
It is my charge,
To take this ephemeral snapshot and deliver it,
Unto my peers, transformed:
No longer a wasted resource, weaponized,
But preserved, purified.
Our Hope, our Light.
Probably our undoing,
But better at our own hands.
