Heat springs off the point of his sharpened pen.
Terrified,
he throws it,
never to write again.
The paper he etched his mind on,
burns slowly,
as if never to end.
Never to cease to be,
absent his heat.
Days pass,
and still,
the heat persist.
Water does nothing.
Sand,
was a waste of time.
He tried the extinguisher,
there was no way to extinguish his mind.
So instead,
he cried.
Tears dripped on the page,
taking every bit of flame away.
Even the smoke,
quickly went away.
For, now the pen was back in his hand.
For, now the words flew out of his mind.
And, those words,
caused him to cry.
Caused him to understand,
the fire was always,
in his mind.
©lamarcus12
L