Just before my eyes golden tendrils leap for the sky, springing from hot coals made from wood thats bone dry.

Crackles and pops take a familiar beat to be joined by the crickets playing violin with their feet.

Woodwind will chime in whenever breezes will blow. While the sweet little dancer comes out for the show.

Her feet skirt over the bed of hot coal completely unbothered by the wind when it blows.

Her hands raise up high and her hues fade from blues, she dances her stuff and shining her light the fires her stage the roar is her might.

Bending and swaying to the rhythm she found. She’ll go out with a name she will leave with a bound.

For her finale she will leap to the stars as a fair ember she surely goes far.

The glow fading more the higher she goes but before she goes out she’ll be red as a rose.

The fires fine dancers will never die though for when one does go it’s another ones show.

View this story's 8 comments.