Is fyre truly, always, orange, amber, red, furious?
We think it can only smoulder and rage and roar.
We think one can only be seared by its pain.
What if, perhaps, I have been burned –
am being burned alive –
but I am, slowly, ever slowly, beginning to see
that the fyre, sometimes, wears brilliant hues.
Who knew that pain-fraught colour
could fashion a luminescent star?
If I’m being honest,
I see these hues in my mind.
Others would tell me the sight is not so brilliant after all,
for life is hard and instructs often by pain.
Fyre, too, can also be lit with tears.
The water has lit the flame, and it is burning blue.
Yet I would much rather hurt –
and grow –
through swirling, scarring colour
than grovel still among amber ash.
I haven’t liked leaving the dark –
it’s comfortable in here.
Or so I have thought
until the venom begins to stab me.
Wiser were those who came
ere this fool in the knock of time –
evil always promises more than it can deliver.
Mistrust and bitterness protect me
like thorny vines.
But I am choking.
I can face what I hate.
I’m not certain I can face what I love.
So why have I not yet been consumed?
That would make much more sense.
Through the shadow I cast and hid within,
I am slowly, ever slowly, beginning to find
something beautiful beyond the pain.
And I am beginning to discover,
there is much more than sears the eye
in the scathing glare of