Musings on an Equinoctial Stroll

Fire licks the sky with its blazing tongue--
leaving no smoky tails to slither--
its taste buds luxuriating in the wind
that funnels around, twisting and
manipulating the tendrils higher and higher.
The air feeds into flames, into lungs;
smarting, deadening, crisping and
cleansing.  Clean mold apparent,
it weighs heavily, hardly a moth's breath;
like an old love.  Feelings boiling, burning
in the best ways; all-consuming.  It soon
festers, only to leave emptiness in its
wake.  A hollow heart echoes its sorrows,
pleading for release from its cage.  Its song
is heard, and the wind caresses its tune,
holding it close, coaxing it out into the world.
The melancholy notes disperse, leaving only
exultant cries of freedom with a mere
undercurrent of what was, but not is.
The tempest carries the sound across the
flickering lights in the sky, exploding
into technicolor displays with sparks
trailing, meandering back down to Earth,
reluctant to be a part of such a
mundane aspect of life.  They bask
in their own fiery blaze, gently blanketing,
covering the ground; setting the world afire.
They scorch the dust where they fall;
a sizzle, pop and snap; gone.