There is something magical about fire. It destroys. It cleanses. It rejuventates.
Few other media seems so alive and yet have no life. It has an almost palpable need to fight for its existence.
A few years ago, I was awoken by bright light through my bedroom window, which would have been fine, but the clock said it was only 4 a.m. Rising from my bed, I drew back the blinds and the room was suffused by the yellow-orange glow of a fire that raged in the next building. The rooftop patio of the club across the alley was aflame.
I was transfixed by the flames that shot higher and higher, dancing across the wooden frame and sending its embers out in search of new sustenance, dancing on the breeze the fire itself created.
Luckily, no one but the club owner’s bank account was injured.
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- Dancing on the breeze, the fire celebrates its own Bacchanal
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- The wooden patio is slowly consumed
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- Like a flowing river, the fire spread across the roof
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- A danse macabre of flame
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- Night became day as the fire warmed the cold blackness
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- And then the warriors arrived to fight back
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- A sudden show quenched the flames
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- And night became day, but the colours changed
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- Until all that remained was debt and a need to renew
createdbyrcw 
Nice piece, buddy. I wonder about the word “media.” Don’t think it’s quite “le mot juste.” I bet you’ll turn up a great substitute. Write on!
Thank you, sir.
I liked the combination of photography and word. I really like the last line.
Cheers, friend.
I hadn’t actually planned any poetic approach; it just kind of happened. In hindsight, I wish I’d given it more thought.
Perhaps next time. (of course, then I’ll probably put too much thought into it and it won’t work as nicely)