Spark the mark with cackling of light, that flurries over salted sheaths of silhouettes, waiting in darkness of bright. Light it up! Make it swelter in dimly lit pockets of terrifically fiery streaks, that pulverize back onto crispy pavements. Dancers slide into ashy footwork without sogginess from spits of prints. Cracks can’t hide from heated mints of cackling shimmers, that reduce to golden showers, framing the flames.

Fire without sound is the burn that leaves everything untouched with hovering cackles, sparking hunger for volcanic streams.

Pouring over delight.

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