a spit of creative writing.

I get as close as I can. No light but the one that burns hot embers aside my knee. I lift a lonely stick from the dancing flames, sparks pop and fly -- finding home upon my lap. Upon this page now stained with ink and ash. The smoke rises from the exposed stick. Grey -- billowing against the pitch black sky. The darkness broke only to the blanket of the stars. I jump back  - quick to react but never losing expectation of the known - a still smoldering fragment flies towards my exposed skin. The stick now losing flame against the fight in the brisk evening. I let a whisper from my lips lick the orange tip --- with contact it's pulse turns a bright yellow and a new flame flickers sporadically, losing life until another whisper speaks softly - just enough life to erupt this dim light into a dancing flame once again. yet it as if this breath is not mine and this flame in fact - the mirror of my heart.

The whisper was not mine but the whisper of a voice who give me - the dancing flame - a reason to dance at all. The sparks smolder as I surrender each and every one until they land, finding a home upon my fathers lap. The sparks of my sin still sting the sensitive skin but they are extinguish with the excepting heart that sits so close. The page is in fact stained not with ash but with tears, for my Father counts every single tear down my cheek - a mark upon my page of a moment I let my captured emotion, my souls smoke billow against the pitch black sky - lost lost in vastness of creation.