After the Last Flame

In the hearth of dusk,

sparks curl like forgotten dreams,

as the bold blaze of yesterday’s promise

sinks into a calm surrender.

Each flame a story,

licking the wood, unraveling ropes

pulled tight with hope,

the crackle like laughter,

now a fading memory.

Burnt orange,

the color of summers past,

where warmth has wrapped around silence

and kept shadows at bay,

but all things,

even the brightest of fires,

must bow to the night.

Look at them dance,

the final tongue of fire,

an eruption of brilliance,

a fleeting embrace

before the abyss snuffs them out.

Graceful, they leave behind the brushstroke of life,

an afterglow upon the canvas of dark.

And here I stand,

gazing at the remnants, so delicate,

as sparks fall like lost words

upon the cold earth.

A promise held close,

to ignite again perhaps,

or to rest, content in stillness,

for nothing truly ends,

it only pauses,

waiting beneath the surface.

The glow has receded,

but memory stirs,

for even the spark holds warmth,

the ripple of a flame,

its soft voice heavy with the richness of what was,

and the terrain it leaves behind,

ready to cradle seeds anew.

So, I cherish this silent demise,

this graceful retreat,

the elegance of endings,

as the last fire expels its breath,

and I am left with shadows,

the promise of dawn in the embrace of night.