The Burning Torch Ben Hopper
As the sky’s jagged colors shifted onward, I stared endlessly at the torch standing proudly in the middle of the road. I had always thought of a torch as lost fragments of the past, slipping through, amongst the smokescreen of time. The ancient flame stood hanging gently in the post midnight air, leaving its glow engraved in the freshly paved asphalt below. Its splintered wood burned brittle yet still upright, curved slightly under the concentrated assault of heat. Picking up the torch I could feel the warmth as it echoed out to me, grasping helplessly towards nothing. Felt the pulse of the blaze, the line tracing its elemental power and its natural purity. Hollow winds pushed hard against me. I felt their strength as they distorted the flame, its gentle embers dancing through the air. I used my hand to protect the fire like one would a wounded child. My efforts though were in vain, defeated, I dropped the charred husk.
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