Dancing with the Flame

The flame beckons with golden tongues,
promising warmth, power, certainty —
how easy to mistake its hungry mouth
for an embrace.

Watch them dance too close:
The angry ones, faces lit crimson,
feeding their rage to the fire
until they become the thing that burns.
Their ashes scatter like bitter words.

See the controllers circle,
thinking they can tame it,
shape it, own it, bend it to their will —
not seeing how it shapes them instead,
until their edges blacken and curl.

The fearful ones build their walls higher,
paranoid of every spark,
their shadows stretched and demon-tall
against their self-made prison walls,
forgetting that darkness breeds more fear.

But wisdom knows the middle path:
Close enough to feel the heat,
to let it forge but never break,
to study fire’s dance without joining its wild waltz.
This is the art of standing firm.

Like the potter who knows the kiln,
like the smith who shapes the steel,
we learn to use the flame’s fierce gift
without becoming fuel.
Distance is our teacher.

The secret lives in that space
between rejection and surrender,
where passion warms but never burns,
where conviction stands without consuming,
where light illuminates but does not blind.

Here, in this delicate balance,
we find our strength:
Not in the flame’s wild hunger,
but in knowing just how close
to let it burn.

Stand here with me,
in this perfect space
where the heat reminds us we’re alive,
but our shadows fall behind us,
and our eyes stay clear.