Hello,
For the past few days, not before, I have seen a fire burning across the water, miles away. Its strength waxes and wanes, but as it burns it does not move. The flame is precisely confined. A closed system, it has no fuel. It burns itself.
As they drift, the night's clouds taunt the fire with their motion. In return, the orange intensity rends them from their innominate darkness, leaves them bare under its gaze.
Despite its fervor, I have come to realize that the fire no longer burns. I can still see its image there, confined to the same prison, raging. The clouds still suffer from its harsh dominion. Even in daylight, the image leaves ghostly green ashes when I close my eyes.
Yet, it is inconceivable that a fire continues to burn. I am looking at the past. It has starved in its cell, but the tardy light that trickles in my window has slowed; like it gives to stars, it has given a prolonged life to that fire, only hesitantly widening its silent, spherical elegy.
just sayin,
walter