Dancers Of The Flame

I am searching for that brief moment of clarity. My mind wanders into the wee hours of the morning, until sleep finally overcomes me, and my dreams take me places I never wanted to go. It always amazes me to wake up in my bed or on the couch. I fear one of these mornings never to return, but to float, adrift forever, in the ocean of my insanity.
"Lay your head back, and talk to me of anything." She says. "It's okay. I've been through it all before." How comforting are these words? I know she has never been married, never lived alone. She's never had an addiction, but once took a twelve-step program because it was in vogue. She has lived her sheltered life precariously through others.
She craves intellectualism. She collects obscure words and phrases, mouths them and tosses them out there in all their profundity. She wraps herself in them, wears them like armour. No one is allowed to see the person she really is, only this persona she hides behind. Unless she speaks of the rain.
And so I talk to her. Who else is there? I talk to her and wait, breathless, for her to feed me cliches offered as wisdom.
And my questions remain unanswered. What does she know of walking to the edge of madness, struggling to keep your balance out on those far reaches where creativity and originality so elusively lie? I doubt she has ever shared this companionship of loneliness, has ever felt the pain of loss. What does she know of silence?
I think of her as a dancer of this flame of life. She neither fuels the fire nor is consumed by it. Like a blind moth I am drawn to her. And so I speak.

Her image haunts me as I stumble along this tiresome and dusty road.
I kneel breathless, beneath an aged willow, this life I am wont to unload.
And as the sun filters down, through the Heavenly boughs above,
I hear the leaves whisper softly, and they speak to me of love.

She was my Mexico. I no longer search for answers or an answer. My unflinching Erato. I take comfort in her silence. It is only the vestige of those, who remain inside of us, that live on, eternal. My soul screams for rain.