An ember burned both silently and slow. Its’ flashing figure exuberantly churned. I sat and watched its’ mortal mantle go. And from whence it came it then returned. With valiance, it stretched out stinging arms. A gesture of its’ dying sacrifice. Its dark aroma gave wings to it’s charms. As it succumbed to buckets cold as ice.
The ember, dancing orange and glowing most righteously in Death, shews forth the Fiery aspect of Fire, the expenditure of Force for no apparent reason. The essence of futility and the seed of hope. The Birth of a Universe: so often we neglect to see that it is the rarest realization of probability when the spark catches hold. But that moment, that one chance in an infinite array of meaningless deaths, were ever the only true moment. That moment is existance - and all else, from flights of fancy to the depths of despair, was the illusion.
