Fire. A blaze in my hands that I can craft into any shape I wish. It is my passion, my flame to share. You may call me arrogant. You may call me rash. I don’t care. Of course I don’t. I can wrap my fiery rope around you and change your opinion with little more than an ember of my will. Just give me the fuel.
I can see the top of the stairs.
It doesn’t look far.
Just like a mountain doesn’t look that tall
until you stand
by its roots
gazing up at the sheer
of it, and all your hopes
skitter off along the horizon,
with barely a wave goodbye.
But I know I’m not facing a mountain.
I’m facing fifteen rectangular boxes
stacked vertically yet veering forwards
to create an upwards path.
Should I convince myself,
that my wasted muscles will let me walk
to the top?
I don’t know.
Maybe I should just tackle
the stairs like a mountain –
my mountain –
I think I could do that.
If I try.
They tied themselves together, linking their hands with an elaborate wrap of solder. It was all for the dance; preparation for the endless twirling and spinning that was set to take place during the sixty seconds between midnight and one minute past. But that minute is never just a minute; to the right people, it is an eternity. They were the right people. They never came back.