A wondrous woman is but a fortuitous flame

Burning brazen, blue and bright.

‘A’ by any other given name,

She is a decorance and a delight.


She is the most fantastic fire

Of this and any new-born day.

Can you see how she dares to serenely inspire

From within both the passion and the play?


The words are rarely if ever spoken

To whom they are really meant.

A living mortal soul becomes tormented, tortured and eventually broken

By the discourse and elasticity of discontent.


Such a burning flame faintly flickers

In the gentle autumnal breeze.

Alas, modesty  taints, tempts and trickers

A humble man to his knees.


She is, for all intents and purposes, the Firegirl

Who no one can know but me.

She is the intelligible irony of a tumbled twirl

And the tantric torch to set me free.


Oh Firegirl, Firegirl, I bellow your name

Because you are who so surely are.

You can burn and you can enflame

This heart and never leave a scar.


This is what a woman does

When she goes inside a man’s abode.

She opens windows and doors, thus

And cracks the impossible code.


There is no smoke without fire

And there can be no fire without a spark.

There is no passion ever without desire

Or an unlit beacon in the dark.


The Firegirl has gone beyond the ritual tinder

And decrees the essence of a dream.

She is oblivious to the chasm of the cinder,

The Firegirl is everything that she doth seem.


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