Strings in the Soul

It begins with the spark;

That kindling to creativity,

That pilot light

That burns within the human heart.

 

Sometimes it is snuffed down

To a dull glow:

A faint redness

On the brink of extinction.

 

But the Bellows are subject

To the slightest provocation

And in an instant

The spark may be respirated

Into a furious blaze

That cannot, must not be contained.

 

It rushes and rages

Up and Out.

 

Out and down your arm,

Into the fingers,

Flaring out across the blank

And illuminates the nothing.

A swift dance across paper

Or strings

Or keys.

 

Up and Out.

 

Rocketing from the chest,

Burning through the throat 

And erupting from between the lips.

 

A vast, glowing mushroom cloud

Pouring forth from you, the Furnace.

The fellow sparks

That lurk in the choking dark

Draw near.

 

Draw near

So that they may bathe

In the glow of your incindiary flower

As it blooms into a vortex

And catches them up

In a flurry of ecstasy.

 

It turns 'round its centre 

Like a hurricane 'round its eye.

 

It reaches into the sky:

A brash challenge to 

Celestial condescension

 

It plunges into the centre of the earth

And the ground is as an epileptic

As it heaves in testimony.

 

At the inferno's epicentre,

At its source, 

What can be found?

You can be found.

 

Who are you?

There is no "you".

There is only "we"

And the Fire.

 

The fire within us all

That aches,

That hungers to be fanned and fueled

So that it may charge forth 

And make itself known.