Walking past some old friend, she said to me,
during conversation "you've lost your spark. We,
together I mean, don't laugh over tea.
Well, I thought it was well hidden,
underneath my skin, to let it be seen was forbidden.
The pain that is.
I guess all she could see was the dark.
Light-weight ashes from the fire, flying around me like a lark.
The fire you blew out in one one wind. Yes you.
The one that had yellow, orange and red sparks jumping off too.
"Maybe he was scared of getting hit by the amber embers.
And so therefore he threw it over the cambers."
Maybe she was right.
"But there's nothing to worry about.
There are candles all over the world so abandon doubt.
They wont mind you resting on them,
to ignite your wick again.
Fuse your fire
and make those works a display. So much so they question themselves on what happened to you prior."