Of Luck

  All there was were a dance of flames,

  They were fairies of no clear aim.

  Prances, twirls and an occasional arch of a back,

  Their toes in tips and they stood on grounds that were dark.

  What was produced, a simple crackling,

  Sound that echoed throughout the entire time.

  No song, of violins or pianos or trumpets,

  To accompany an unheard symphony.

  We drowned in a sea of flame,

  And waves of smoke.

  It was suffocating and gratifying,

  To know.

  When will this experience ever dissipate?

  Would it come in numbers or the entirety of the whole?

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Brighter colours came in sight.

  Fear leaked and as sweat poured down,

  The oxygen consuming monster had a great might.

  Will it take us to own?

  They spoke of a luck that was never there, a time that never passed.

  Not from my memory, it didn’t.

  Everything was just so half-hearted,

  From their experience however, it wasn’t.

  Perhaps they just accepted such,

  With strong minds and ignorance.

  A consummation of what was once fleshed,

  The smell of burnt skin.

  Our bones charred,

  No more was our remaining kin.

  Yes, it's a poem attempt. '_'