flame

there is a flame that burns from your inner intestines to the bony concrete of your ribcage to the imperfect symmetry of your shoulder blades. why do they call them blades anyway. as i was saying, the flame. it simmers most of the time but once in a rugged blue moon it rears its beautifully ugly head and summons my inner demons they could be angels to move me. i like to think of it as a volcano that erupts and the flames lick its falling edges into fiery molten oblivion until tomorrow - when the liquid fire is immortalised into stone, again. what is she raving about another post about the disjointed detached scattered almost-ideas in her brain. no i think i have it. there is a concept that is forming in my mind i am trying to sculpt it in the myopic eye of my mind but it slips away like dew on waking petals. stravinski in my ear and monotonous salsa in cafe speaker not helping. i will make it thru stravinki (i missed an s) and not give way to my playlist again. anyway, the flame. are you following? follow me but i don't know where i'm going. especially today. the flame. do you get these moments when you're grasping your future in your mind and it all looks so easy. then you lose it. the flame burns the edges of the cold mist around the lethargy the translucence the murky rings of water engulfing the every-day and somehow creates solid stone from fluid abstraction. the sky's the limit he said spoken like a true american but he's from congo the flames consumed him long ago. the sky of a farmland what sky is he talking about. the flame is burning today and i see the outlines maybe it will open a wardrobe door into an evil land. but even the evil land with eternal snow had the burgeoning breath of sun melt it into goodness, at the author's discretion, one day. i am still gibbering abstract nonsense am i not? where is my mind way out in the water see it swimmin' they said.
ok. i'm talking about rising passions ambitions emotions that mushroom you. a flash of a flame of a passion of a moment that you want to stay. and you know it won't. but you want to keep the fresh scent of the memory of it like a hint of a perfume of a person that is no longer there. trust me he said. keep smiling he said. should i trust a person who tells me to trust him?
what flames eat him i wonder? the clinking devouring flames of green dollar bills that may eat my wandering passions too. no no no the flame of me my flame will be mine it may burn me but it will be mine. my passion my ambitions my bleeding sweat of bleeding years. my melodramatic flame. my ideas. my ideals. let them engulf me burn me, as long as they burn!
oufff!