Fire on the Moor


Fire on the Moor

Fickle flicker of desire runs through me, turning my body electric. Static‑shocked fingers pulse—words heard and formed resound with simple eloquence, harmonious and buoyant.

Fickle flicker of desire flames out, turning my blood tepid. Stillness sets in. The excitement settles, chaos quells. The body, cold and heavy, awakes from dreams in technicolor turned lurid limbo.

Fickle flicker of desire, once ravenous and hot, feasted itself into collapse. Without the flame that once sustained, I roam a dark, foggy moor, seeking whence I came— this sweet, now sordid journey.

I traipse without grace; heaps of slick mud clump to my heel, turning every pace into strained clomps.

Fickle flicker of desire— I wade through misty dark in search of remnants of spark to once again enliven this homeward arc. Wanton wisps of shelved personae push and pull my unsteady frame into choppy motion.

Oh misty moor, your strange hints and glints of displaced light make play of things nevermore, making my mind sweat in fevered plight. Faint and foreign, this patchwork self, roughly constructed, nudges me through frigid fog toward uncertain dawn.

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