Fire

As far as I've swam, I still feel the fire never died. Too afraid of it's burn to realize its beauty. I now see. Pain is a blind fold, a curten sheilding me from the mornings glory. I swam franticly for miles, trying to escape its heat. Finaly I see. The flames are wonderful. It's burn is not but a fraction of its passionate grace. Irony. I drown swimming. I sink regreting the dive. Regret ever atempting to exstinguish the flames. Now, I drown in the darkness. Sink, wishing I had burned in the light. Here in my dark damp grave, I shiver in the cold. Freezing. As I lose the ability to draw enough breath, to fill the hallow space within me, I dream of fire. Before I slumber forever still seeing in my minds eye, those glorious amber, scarlet flames. Yet, all to soon the fire burns it's self out. The searing coals cool, and as the cynders and ashs float back down, I realize that all I ever needed was to love the fire. And it would love in return. I like to think that before death, my final action was not but a grin. But I will never know for sure if I acheived this. A smirk at death, a smile for fire. It seems I've found my understanding.