Driftwood

Sublte shadows of self-indulgence flicker throught the forge of my mind. The bellows inflate restlessly forever; they breathe the thoughts of what's to come. The flames rise and fall in time with my periods of stability. Always blowing into the wind but never going out for good. The steady fires of conformity are limited in their application, but a bonfire of self-will can inflame the whole of the world. Flames of passion, and ashes of regret all smolder among the coals of my mind; embers of intuition and blazes of creativity all burn quietly away without a worry. But, at the end of it all, quite like hearing a pin drop; the flames will be extinguished, and all the heat will dissipate. The cold pallor of escape will set in claiming me like all the rest. What will be left of me then but a scattering of ash? Will a small torch of remembrance burn on forever in my name, or will the fires cease altogether leaving me forgotten for all time? Somewhere in time yet to pass some obscure historian's pen may record my passing silently, but for me that's not enough. I want to blaze on forever, if only in the minds of a few, better than not at all. Would you remember me? Would you tend my fire? Add a piece of driftwood to the coals? Or would you bury and forget? Remember....