The Bonfire

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A sweet slice of moon observes
Impish figures shift their weight
Around a roaring blue-green flame.
Smoke licks the navy sky, a close friend
And metal flecks spray
From a cavern in the middle of the fire.
Twisted faces, hooked noses
Balding heads
Stubby, eager arms reach out
Grasping for that moon,
The only innocent thing left in the sky.
A pan flute sears the noiseless night
And the fire in savage eyes is stokes once more.
Back to dancing.





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