The words I wrote about her on a glossy paper,
are now lost into the infinite ashes.
I should have listened to them,
They told me she is no less than a fire.
I searched through the ashes,
To find a teeny part of my secluded heart.
I found nothing but a souvenir,
Of our long walk in a garden full of bushes.
We had walked and talked and talked,
I had talked too much but said too little.
I had noticed her through the corner of my eyes,
She had heard too much but listened too little.
But I knew she was no campfire,
All light and heat for a night,
And willing to be left after.
She was something more, something bright.
She was like a hearthfire, not too attractive
But enough alluring to woo a man.
Underneath she was like a warm red coal,
That burns for a long, long while.
Call me a fool or an imbecile,
But she was like a waterfall of sparks,
Pouring off the edge of an iron held by an enchantress
Falling into my hollow heart and melting it.