These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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It burns in me still: the silken bridal veil cast over the twilight only barely shielding the smoldering sunset; the music of Rimsky-Korsakov, driving like a lance into my heart, gentle painful forcing of beauty; the moonlight that lies on the grass, sipping the furtive dew. It burns in me. The candle in my soul begins to sear through. Fire, pure and painful, caressing me, rending my flesh, begging yet demanding to be released. The world is aflame. And I stare in joyful agony at the candelabra, unable to partake of the supper set before me, feasting rather on the tender danger of the flames - at the painful beauty of a dark room set by jewels of candle-fire, shadow fighting against the unquenchable burning. The candlelight burns itself into my eyes, showing me the elegant dance of tragedy and myth - I am consumed by fire. The fire will not let me go! And in this mating of heaven and hell, pleasure and torment, innocence and loss, burning and shadow, I am entranced, made helpless in my deadly moth's fascination with the flame that beckons to me, demanding a lover's firey union. It burns in me still.
