Playing With Fire

There is something so
Satisfying in stoking
The ashes of a dying fire,
Not in some metaphorical
Or symbolic sense,
But very real comfort

In the welcoming warmth,
Or the gorgeous orange glow
Of hidden embers
Flaring like favourite memories
Ready to live again
With the right fuel and fresh air,

The naive thrill of
Playing with danger,
The power in knowing

All that you have burned
And what you could yet destroy,
Erase, hide away,

Scattering the remnants
Through the gaps in the grate,
A quick cosmetic cleaning
Of the fireplace,
Just dust left to smoulder underneath,
Hidden behind the bars of the guard. 


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