and bury it before it buries me
She once, when she had been little, had stood in the ancient valley of her brith land. And she dreamed that was a blade of grass and she knew all the stories they held as they grew taller and taller.
They withered and died.
And she along with it.
She wonders what happened to that blade of grass. If it ever grew back. Or if it sits beneath the dirt, waiting for better days to grow, when the sun may be brighter, and the rain may be gentler. She wonders how long it may wait. If a blade of grass can wait forever.
Fire alights her skin, but it does not burn even if she glows like embers. She wonders if it is only because she dances, dances amongst the bright flames of fireflies, that she does not turn to ash like Paraiso once did a half century ago. She dance with moving hips (so much like rolling waves), and flowing legs (like smoke in the sky) and a smile on her face (like sunshine.) And they prance together in the water, like synchronized dance partners, their reflections and themselves melding into one.
Dance.
Dance.
Dance.
Stop.
Her entire body feels like butterfly wings against flower petals.
More and more come, drawn to the pair and their beauty and their dancing. Elena watches as Maret reaches out to touch them, like sunlight slipping through the trees. “Where did you learn to dance?” Elena asks her, because she knows her own story, but she thinks the steps of strangers are far more intriguing, far more deserving of a story, a story that she wants to hear.
And how does she know these things? How does she know? “When fire travels, we run, but when it stills, when it sits their flickering and glowing, we gather.” She says, thinking of bonfires and summers. They continue to come, to gather, to glow.
They withered and died.
And she along with it.
She wonders what happened to that blade of grass. If it ever grew back. Or if it sits beneath the dirt, waiting for better days to grow, when the sun may be brighter, and the rain may be gentler. She wonders how long it may wait. If a blade of grass can wait forever.
Fire alights her skin, but it does not burn even if she glows like embers. She wonders if it is only because she dances, dances amongst the bright flames of fireflies, that she does not turn to ash like Paraiso once did a half century ago. She dance with moving hips (so much like rolling waves), and flowing legs (like smoke in the sky) and a smile on her face (like sunshine.) And they prance together in the water, like synchronized dance partners, their reflections and themselves melding into one.
Dance.
Dance.
Dance.
Stop.
Her entire body feels like butterfly wings against flower petals.
More and more come, drawn to the pair and their beauty and their dancing. Elena watches as Maret reaches out to touch them, like sunlight slipping through the trees. “Where did you learn to dance?” Elena asks her, because she knows her own story, but she thinks the steps of strangers are far more intriguing, far more deserving of a story, a story that she wants to hear.
And how does she know these things? How does she know? “When fire travels, we run, but when it stills, when it sits their flickering and glowing, we gather.” She says, thinking of bonfires and summers. They continue to come, to gather, to glow.
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@Maret
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
