The fire of this soul has been smothered,
Then rekindled,
From time to time, winters, summers.
It has run cold,
Has hid when the warmth returned,
And has bellowed when it deemed itself invincible,
Constrained to heal from lashings of discontent,
From within, from outside,
From all angles in which the wind blows,
To surpass these points of views of ugliness that destroys attitudes.
It melts, softens the tiny cracks of possibilities,
Undertakes the charge of building those fractures into gaping holes of prosperity,
After all is said, all is done, all is over,
This soul still has a fire, a fervor that smolders,
Or at least senses that its burn will forever secure the memories that were the original spark.