Flame, Flies and Fecal Excrement.

Had I been more sparing in words and kind in language, I would have been mirrored in a flame’s sharp tongue and encapsulated in its trauma. Had I used the language more metaphorically - subtle yet intense, moving but precise – I would have been wearing the same pair of rotten slippers it used to.

I am aware; but I am not.

Its language less blunt but outspoken, creates a picturesque of sort and describes in vivid details the faces of a tireless denouement. Its treatment of language is impassioned, fashioned with swift melodic touches, so poignant, glad to hear but is never understood. Its verses are lucid and precise, as clear as the water flushing the human stool down the latrine.

Its metaphor breathes thirty-nine degrees of remorse, exculpating the cavity from the yellow-tarnished tooth; its imagery, a reiteration civility and civilization as superficial remainders extracted from bargaining but at the concealed nerve endings rest individual biases and prejudices. It holds a razor-sharp scalpel attacking the mundane to satisfy an unbridled self-conceit.

In the fields, the flies are swaying in ecstasy, nibbling on the decomposing fecal excrement, and prancing around it with delight. They indulge upon such a horrendous sight, but delectable to their senses; each one moving from point A to point B as if it was their last. But as the sun cools down, the foreboding darkness devilishly smirks at them, painstakingly waiting for its sweet opportunity to devour them. Finally, the flies bow down, hurl their last pirouette, and fall dead upon the bosom of the earth they had once condemned.

A flame I know speaks with subtlety, imagery and metaphor; criticizes the mundane and attacks censoriously; but never foresees equanimity and objectivity.