“O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.“ – William Shakespeare
“In the early part of my life I carried the flame for fiery women: perky women who were not dumb.”– Debra Winger
To the casual eye, a fire is a fire. There is much more to the flame, than what is taken for granted. My flame lives, breathing a jealous breath. It reaches out for more in hungry, at times violent, lustful hunts. My flame can be patient, lying dormant in embers of anticipation. It’s tongues lap gently at the air, crackles of passion beginning, growing with intensity, the climax a promise if given more; the afterglow a certainty, soft colors showing the lovers dance of death. Creating as it rolls and frolics, anything exposed to its playful antics will be changed. Sweet gentle animal, raging storm, my flame inspires awe and reverence. From ages beyond and before, men will court you. I use you sweet flame, and likewise you use me. Perpetuating my affair, I sit for hours watching you dance. A lustful patron, I eagerly throw you my supply to see you sway. Though my offering is consumable, without a care you eagerly consume my soul. You‘re always faithful to perform, licking seductively, swaying, teasing. Spreading your heat, I feel your glow against me as I come close. My inspiring muse to create all, you bring romance to my cold nights and warm ambiance to chilled emotion. My flame, let me hold you, spinning around with joy, shedding your tears of laughter, sparks that disappear within seconds. Without you, I perish for want of nurture. You are my sustenance for long days; my lover flame, satiate me with your enduring comfort; you are my fire, you are my flame, you are my woman.