then turned it on the dark." - These two lines took my breath away for a moment. I immediately thought of Prometheus and of how the legend might have continued if humans had learned the language of fire. Thank you for the space to dream. The poem is very beautiful.
It honestly wasn’t in my mind while I was writing, but afterwards I recognised the same kind of moment — not the story itself, but the feeling of it.
That point where something raw and powerful stops being just “out there” and starts responding to us. Where language, or awareness, or curiosity crosses a line, and suddenly what we’ve touched can look back. Fire learning our language felt like that — not a gift, exactly, and not a punishment either, just a shift you can’t undo once it’s happened.
I’m really grateful you stepped into it as a space to dream. That feels like the right way to meet this poem.💛
I am also really impressed by your ability to be succinct. I read a lot of poems that lose impact because they're too long to sustain the intensity of their ideas. This one is a perfect example of how TO do it - it says more than it says out loud, so it stays in your mind, and your subconscious keeps turning it over and over, finding new textures and sensations.
This feels ancient and immediate at the same time.
Fire learned our language — and then answering us back — carries such a quiet warning about what happens when we mistake naming for mastery. By the time silence is named, the dark is already altered.
That final turn — This is why you came. / This isn’t your dream. — lands like recognition rather than revelation. As if the spark isn’t accusing, just telling the truth.
okay but excuse me, who gave the spark permission to be that sure of itself.
it just strolls in, flips the lights, and goes “yeah, you asked for this actually,” while the dark is still squinting.
i love how fire here isn’t comfort... it’s a translator. it learns us, then throws our own words back hotter, brighter, impossible to ignore. silence barely gets named before it’s already too late, the night fully lit with stolen sun.
and that ending, Mark? absolutely not a dream. this is arrival. this is being clocked. this is the universe tapping the sign like “read it again.”
😂 I’m afraid the spark arrived already briefed — no hesitation, no permissions, just that unsettling certainty of something that’s been waiting longer than you have.
It doesn’t comfort, it translates, and once it’s done learning you it doesn’t soften the return.
I love how you caught that timing too — silence barely gets its name before it’s already obsolete, the night lit up with borrowed evidence.
And yes, exactly: not a dream, not a metaphor you can wake up from, but arrival. Being clocked. That moment where the universe doesn’t raise its voice, it just points back at the line and waits.
Thank you for reading it with that much attention — and for letting it speak back instead of trying to tame it or put the flames out.
This poem feels ancient and intimate at the same time. The way you personify fire and darkness creates a quiet mythology...one where language, light, and purpose are born together. The final lines are especially striking; they turn the poem inward and confront the reader with meaning rather than comfort. It doesn’t explain itself, and that restraint is its strength. This feels less like a dream and more like a remembering.
Fire discovering poetry and immediately using it to interrogate us. “The dark was burning with stolen sun” is a gorgeous theft, and that final turn—this isn’t your dream—lands like a quiet cosmic smirk. Elemental, ominous, and just self-aware enough to feel intentional rather than myth-drunk.
Thank you so much @Castor K Pollux. That compressions and what I call in my mind “fine tuning” is something I do spend quite a bit of time over and am always curious if it’s worth it.
"fire learned our language,
then turned it on the dark." - These two lines took my breath away for a moment. I immediately thought of Prometheus and of how the legend might have continued if humans had learned the language of fire. Thank you for the space to dream. The poem is very beautiful.
Thank you so much, Phoeby.
I love that you picked up on Prometheus.
It honestly wasn’t in my mind while I was writing, but afterwards I recognised the same kind of moment — not the story itself, but the feeling of it.
That point where something raw and powerful stops being just “out there” and starts responding to us. Where language, or awareness, or curiosity crosses a line, and suddenly what we’ve touched can look back. Fire learning our language felt like that — not a gift, exactly, and not a punishment either, just a shift you can’t undo once it’s happened.
I’m really grateful you stepped into it as a space to dream. That feels like the right way to meet this poem.💛
I had to chew on this for a while.
After a time it felt almost like a strong memory expressed in a unique way.
That’s just perfect then @MargaretGypsy as it’s just the feeling I was aiming for.
A memory (or is it future) moment that lingers.
Hopefully it tasted good after all the chewing! 😊
This was beautiful Mark. I agree where another subscriber has said those two lines- “fire learned our language,
then turned it on the dark.”… wow. Perfection.
Thank you so much @Regolith. It really means a lot.
I’m glad those lines landed for you; they were the first ones to arrive, and everything else had to learn how to stand and breathe behind them.
A fantastic engaging read Mark. Really had to sit with those lines and think wow.. what an absolute talent.
Humbled. Truly. Thank you kindly Regolith 🫶
A memory? Beautifully penned.
Thank you @Be Budding 💛 ✨️ 💛
Mark, you ignite smoldering excellence! Smoking 🔥 hot!
What else can I say?
I love it!
Thank you so much @✨️NightLure✨️! 💛 🫶 💛
🤍
I love how the rhyme lands here - powerful, unapologetic, sure. It crackles like splitting logs in a fire. Wonderful. Yes, this is why I came.
Thank you so much Moll. I love how you picked up on that, as it was a core element to this in writing.
And for repeating the line :) 💛
I am also really impressed by your ability to be succinct. I read a lot of poems that lose impact because they're too long to sustain the intensity of their ideas. This one is a perfect example of how TO do it - it says more than it says out loud, so it stays in your mind, and your subconscious keeps turning it over and over, finding new textures and sensations.
This feels ancient and immediate at the same time.
Fire learned our language — and then answering us back — carries such a quiet warning about what happens when we mistake naming for mastery. By the time silence is named, the dark is already altered.
That final turn — This is why you came. / This isn’t your dream. — lands like recognition rather than revelation. As if the spark isn’t accusing, just telling the truth.
“This is why you came.”
okay but excuse me, who gave the spark permission to be that sure of itself.
it just strolls in, flips the lights, and goes “yeah, you asked for this actually,” while the dark is still squinting.
i love how fire here isn’t comfort... it’s a translator. it learns us, then throws our own words back hotter, brighter, impossible to ignore. silence barely gets named before it’s already too late, the night fully lit with stolen sun.
and that ending, Mark? absolutely not a dream. this is arrival. this is being clocked. this is the universe tapping the sign like “read it again.”
😂 I’m afraid the spark arrived already briefed — no hesitation, no permissions, just that unsettling certainty of something that’s been waiting longer than you have.
It doesn’t comfort, it translates, and once it’s done learning you it doesn’t soften the return.
I love how you caught that timing too — silence barely gets its name before it’s already obsolete, the night lit up with borrowed evidence.
And yes, exactly: not a dream, not a metaphor you can wake up from, but arrival. Being clocked. That moment where the universe doesn’t raise its voice, it just points back at the line and waits.
Thank you for reading it with that much attention — and for letting it speak back instead of trying to tame it or put the flames out.
beautiful master
Thank you Sehran 💛 🫶 💛
This poem feels ancient and intimate at the same time. The way you personify fire and darkness creates a quiet mythology...one where language, light, and purpose are born together. The final lines are especially striking; they turn the poem inward and confront the reader with meaning rather than comfort. It doesn’t explain itself, and that restraint is its strength. This feels less like a dream and more like a remembering.
Thank you so much, Dawnithic. That means a great deal, especially from you.
“Ancient and intimate” is exactly the tension I was trying to hold, and I love how you named it as remembering rather than dreaming.
You have a way of noticing the moments, meaning and currents underneath, the part that isn’t trying to soothe, just to be recognised.
I’m really grateful you saw it.💛 🫶 💛
Thank you, Mark, for your excellent compliment for me.💙❤
Fire discovering poetry and immediately using it to interrogate us. “The dark was burning with stolen sun” is a gorgeous theft, and that final turn—this isn’t your dream—lands like a quiet cosmic smirk. Elemental, ominous, and just self-aware enough to feel intentional rather than myth-drunk.
That’s such a generous read.
Thank you, Dipti.
I love “gorgeous theft” and that idea of a quiet cosmic smirk.
I’m glad it felt intentional rather than drunk on its own myth; that line was meant to know exactly what it was doing, then stop talking.
Of course—when the poem knows it’s fire and still chooses restraint, that’s the smirk. Say less, burn brighter.
Exactly. And make sure you’re carrying a flask of water too :)
Always. Fire with a water bottle—hydrated, self-aware, and only burning what’s necessary 🔥💧😌
Really beautiful
Thank you so much Marwa 💛 🫶 💛
Thank you so much @Castor K Pollux. That compressions and what I call in my mind “fine tuning” is something I do spend quite a bit of time over and am always curious if it’s worth it.
I’m so pleased that came through for you.
Thank you so much, dear SheHermit.
That’s a really thoughtful and generous way of seeing it.
I love how you frame light as knowledge that can’t quite be put back once it’s named.
I didn’t want the poem to judge that change, only to sit with the moment it looks back at us.
I’m so pleased it stayed with you.💛 🌻 💛