DYING FLARE
Who puts me to blame? I watched the weak flame dance fidgety on the wick frame of the archaic lantern and I again asked myself, who puts me to blame for burning the flame low? I have had long thoughts in silent stir and observed many nights in quiet stare over one thought. If I could go back in the flame of time, what will I burn differently?
I have groped in the cage of silence too long that I now stagger under the wage of its unspoken rage. How do I go back in time to redeem the crime committed in the prime days? How do I overcome the fear of a shame I held no claim to and reclaim my flair for the old love game again?
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I took a deep sigh as I read the signs again. I had missed my turning at the junction of haste. I burnt the thrust of passion too early past the warning signs. I lost the chase to my fast pace in a race that required slow motion. Now I have to go slow and burn the flames low to recover the lost boost of not just my flaming passion, but also the love chase game as well.
How do I rekindle the glow and make the flare grow. How do I make her know and make this fear go? That the long thoughts in silent stir and the many nights in quiet stare is all about her; about how to get back in the chase for her chaste.
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I stare deep down the horizon as the flare of daylight rise. As a pawn in a game of love, I stand across the lawn of affection contemplating whether to raise my flair with the rising flare or stay in the lair of my old fear and see how I may fair. The dilemma is that the deed is done but the misdeed will be to not quickly redeem the act. Now at the crossroad voices of several decisions rumbling to kill the flair, I have to keep the flare glowing.