Embers

Intuition flares, prancing in ostentatious circles, feather-tip proud. Lugubrious grey wigs speckle gregariously bedecked by flamboyant gems: they flicker frustratingly in stifled Regency ballrooms. Our embers, in contrast, are quiet. Shushed. They wallow in dark corners, hidden from prying eyes. Predators. Our collective eyelid flutters closed: too shy, subduing to privacy. A silent tear streaks our collectively cold face. Science ensnares our senses, making ordinary life dim - blindingly darkened; teetering on Boredom’s knife edge – we long to carve it free; infuse new scarlet veins into its unthinking, meaty flesh, stoking a smothered fire, rekindling its earthy, endearing embers.