The Rippling fire inside me,
It burns my heart so wild.
For it is made of Ice,
Stone cold like granite,
It burns not of the heat but of the Flame thats deep inside,
Like water't drips below,
Too blocked to see the light.
Gray now is the meadow,
And green is the flame.
The lonely fields of joy,
The world stands to claim.
So I sit in the middle,
As the Chaos grows high.
Thinking of the flame
that burns deep inside.
YOU ARE READING
A Life
PoetryHere sits a poem. A poem of mystery and meaning, interwoven with the strings that bind space and time.
