Your Fire

I love your fire--the way it swirls and flickers and grows on demand. I love the way it burns my skin and singes my hair whenever I get close to its licking beauty. Despite the pain, I am drawn like a moth. Some day I will be hopelessly enveloped in the red-orange center and, screaming in deranged ecstasy, will feel its consuming heat invade my lofty shape and destroy my sanity. My wings' ashes will then be a shrine to your fire's power, and my singed remains will be its loyal overseer. They will make sure that the flames never die.