A cauldron rests gingerly atop a raging flame. The muck within simmers, churning, spewing, swirling, gurgling. Restlessness, agitation, anxiety. The odors, the aromas, effervesce from the open mouth of the stewpot. A shadowy figure tends the acrid soup, plunging a stirring stick into the abyss, evoking despondency buried deep within the swill.

Stoke the fire! Fan the flames!

Fingers of fire rise up to caress the massive vessel. Tongues of flame lick the raw metal. The brew turns and foams and froths with increased fervor. Its energy, its passion, surges upward, outward, with unbridled power and vigor. The fallout touches all nearby, burning with the heat of repressed aggression and frustration, now free from its stifling enclosure. The hands that once stirred the pot reel back in pain, emitting visceral, primal wails into the vast emptiness of the night.

Liberated from its prison, the taste of freedom sweetens the soup. Energy is released to the wind, and rest falls.

Amid one's loss, gain is captured by another.


* * * * *
Yeah, like I'm gonna tell you what it means. ;-) Suffice it to say, it's allegorical. Besides, I enjoy playing wordsmith every now and then.

¶ 3:20 PM