Infinitely

Blow trees in the wind and walk a few lines. 

Read what I write, but read what I haven’t written.
Everything is there if you just look.  

So tell me, have I crossed the line?
Have I lost my sense of morals and direction?
Do I know what I’m doing?

I already know the answers, at least for those questions.

The others will come in time.

What’s up next? 

Metaphorically speaking
She lit it on fire so that she could feel the heat blaze across the barrier of the air. So that she could hear the crackling and the hissing as it shriveled and disappeared. So that she could smell the warm sweet and bitter smell of it curling up-black. She could taste it in the air already-acrid joy and cloying tears, melting on her tongue. She lit it on fire to feel these things, so close to herself, because she could not see. Because she could not see the warm flame that it brought, the glow, the ethereal presence of light.