Síor Thine

A flame that burns forever,
Leaving charred lies within its ashes.
It strips away the acid hate
From those who dare to accept
The painful, wonderful gift.

Branches alight with scorched leaves,
No voice within.
The singing has left its roots,
Wilting the petals in its absence.
The Lily and Violet scent, no longer sweet,
Is overwhelmed by the smell of woodsmoke.
The gentle rustles replaced
By a musical crackling of hot tongues.

An odd thought,
That we might find beauty in danger,
The darker side of life.
How we are awestruck by the orange glow
That lights up the night sky.
The aura of warm vitality,
A life we could never put out.