it's the spark that intrigues me. the beautiful flowering of something new. Fire. where the flowers burn, though itself a pattern of petals. i see them play with the wind, shrinking, leaping--all a game.
The candle light might waver with the breeze, but only to catch on the garments of the heart. Fire. it consumes all with its burning passion, but how long will it burn brightly? for in the end, only black ashes are left.
the heart was flimsy paper to start.
ah, my curious mind. this blank paper heart of mine. who will fill it with scribbled stories? when will it all burn away? as i peer into your world i wonder when i can fold my heart into a paper airplane
and glide next to you.
