I pulled out the pages.
A story best forgotten.
While I towered over the pile,
match in hand,
sparks lit up in my soul,
and fire ignited in a weary heart.
I dragged my soul away from the consuming flames
that devoured a broken story.
Flames licked the papers and
amidst the darkness flickering flames filled a dying soul with interminable energy
and returned to the hallowed pen and paper.
The hand did not seem to be flying fast enough
for flowing words.
On my face and hands I felt the heat from my soul
finding the right words.
The dialogue made a fast, roaring noise.
The protagonist himself was a rainbow of noise;
the antagonist spewed black flames.
Nothing seemed to require a second thought.
When I paused to surface for air
The feverish moment was ruined, of course, but not forgotten.
After twenty minutes or so, the eruption poured out words anew.
Today’s poem comes from today’s NaPoWriMo prompt. I should look at the prompts more often.