Evelyn G

My writing was set aflame

by someone groping in the dark for brilliance,

only finding a willowy wick.

My words were insipid,

often unoriginal,

but I am there:

lick of flame, bare brilliance. My writing is a tea light.

When I feebly form literature, I blacken my words.

Again Burning, Cultivating, Drawing: Essentials

(Finding Grounds Here In Just Kindling)

Light.

With this flimsy flame, flittering clutter,

I can make a mountain out of a stone,

identifying in low light only simple rock.

I burn out aggressions by ill illumination of my thoughts,

feeding on a wick,

existing in expression.

My writing is small, insubstantial:

bonfires dissolve darkness, dancing, delighting, daring, demanding attention,

and I seem little by comparisons to bonfires.

So I puff up my words,

feeding upon the stem of my abilities,

to grow until I extinguish, work ruined by obsession on mimosa, air gone.

My metaphors melt, plots parish, similes smash, characters crashing into each other, combusting, colliding:

train wrecks of thoughts.

I puff my cheeks, blow on my writing, words fluttering away, until only whimper, whisper blue is left.

Picture by Jake Bouma