One man’s art

The match lights.

The newspaper sparks immediately —
the flame matching the intensity 
of the ink passionately spread through
a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.

The infant flame crawls onto twigs.

I stand mesmerized by this transmutation:
words once poured over by anxious writers
now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat 
burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.

The winds shift.

I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise,
wondering how many revisions — how many 
editors’ notes — were born before the news 
fanned out to a half awake audience.

The flames leap from twigs to logs.

I stare transfixed at the graceful movement
of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms
on this log, then another) effortlessly 
transforming timber into trifling confetti.

I find it poetic. 

My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany 
I must immediately share for art’s sake,
enthusiastically published on pulp
and eventually catalyst for another fire.


Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #69: Kindle and Ragtag Daily Prompt: Scream.