It starts very small.
It always starts small.
Just a spark at the edge of the forest.
Pride and sublime, the trees rise to heaven. Decades of growth gave them this enormous height. They do not move, they are just there. And then it comes, this little spark, nestles between withered grasses and leaves, unconcerned and light, divides itself and puts on his surroundings, growing visibly bigger and stronger, until the first flames lick, reaching over to the undergrowth, spurting off swiftly from leaf to leaf, from branch to branch, from tree to tree, ascending incessantly, to the highest, brightest tree-tops. Even they have to bow to the flames, which at first were nothing more than a small spark at the edge of the forest.
It starts very small.
It always starts small.
Just a thought on the periphery of my thinking.
So many big, strong images live in me, stories from what has been, the present and the coming, stories that I got as a gift and that I was allowed to live, that I can get and live as a gift, and to the very edge you put the picture of you. Imperceptibly, but with every glance at it, whether intentional or unintentional, it becomes stronger, more expansive, until it relates to all the thoughts, images and stories that live in me, until it accompanies me, guided, like a good friend whom I do not want to do without, that I cannot think away from my life. Inevitably it takes me, and I can do nothing but bow to the thought, which in the beginning was nothing more than a little addition to the periphery of my thinking.
It starts very small.
It always starts small,
Just an innocent, unintentional touch.
I shiver briefly, but both were so insignificant that I do not know if you noticed it, your touch and my shudder, but you let them become more, give me your touch, until they embrace me, all the way, until I am myself longing for it and putting me in your hands like a lamb being led to the slaughter. More and more it takes me in, ignites the will and the on-you, opens me to you, and it was at the beginning but nothing more than an innocent, unintentional touch.
It starts very small.
It always starts small,
Just a little spark
that skips on me
I stand proud and sublime towards you. Long time of becoming and existence made me cautious. But you send that spark into my eye and it glows, sending it into me, seizing my blood, growing, being pumped through me, until every part of my body is infected and burning, burning for you. A fire ignites in me, which is ignited by you only more and more, which does not eat me up, but drives you to you, ever closer, to you, ever deeper, in you, me in heat, which does not burned and not extinguished can not, if I do not want it, not if you do not take me.
And I want to surrender, to the fire,
that was nothing more than a small spark at the beginning
that you let skip on me.
