Upon her heart, the book lay open.
Not a living thing, but alive.
Not moving, but for the rise and
fall of her breathing...
The rise and fall of her thoughts.
Finished! Sad and satisfying.
Truth spoken within.
A shifting shadow, a shinning whisper
inserting itself into her day
with complaint of soul
or the flourish of festive dance.
Conflagrations of her spirit in ageless night.
The gathering of flammables comes to eternal fire -
or falls into ash - by her response.
She knew it was so!
Our natures match and join the burning...
or remain unmoved with eyes that see
only the residue left by the flames.