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Gypsy Stories

The wax gathers at its feet,
dancing, dancing.
White bright light with a dirty base.
It clings to a single point. Pulling
air from a straw under water.
That which it leaves behind
glows, reaction.
Fuelled by the fluid action.

Once a home exploded.
Propane fury, bottled
into the night, until
the heat was just right.
All vanished in a scream.
Sharp burst of air. A beam
was all that remained.

A single-minded swaying in the dark.

We must not let it
out of our sight. Watch
the rivers of wax as they are
drawn in –
breathed out.

What else will disappear when we are not looking?

The restaurant across the road,
in one night, was consumed.
Its roof gaping open, black,
to the night sky. Its bowels exhaled,
up, in smoke.

Lick your finger.
Snuff it out past
the sparks in the blue.
Let it curl around you
as it fades away.

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