The Flaming Art.

Those who are meant to inspire will thus inspire. 

Inspiration, imagination, 

what cannot be controlled will not be controlled, 

suppressing them, impossible 

and yet so many try. 

One is born with this gift, one and one again, 

born in time to come, in time come forth, 

and the times that having come have now been lost

in all but what was left behind. 

A legacy to fly.

To not be allowed to write or draw or fight,

so to extract what young minds hide. 

Then what will young mens heads give to this great world?

If not a paper, give them a pen.

Find other ways to cry.

If not allowed to write I will speak, 

if gone mute, my arms will spell the words,

if gone limb, my eyes will show the scream, 

and if finally my eyes close to never open again,

in their memories: inspiration, imagination.

A language, a will, a history, 

a way of being you can't erase.

Even when the hope of fire flickers. 

Even when memories are blurry.

The fire will never die, if inside one man it still burns bright.

It cannot be lost. 

But without it's fuel, a light seems dim.

Without a looking eye, it seems lost.

Find it. 

Find the fuel that burns your fire might.

And never let it go.

And if one day it goes, pursue it.

Once and every time.

Pursue it.