PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Inheritance of Flame

(for the muse who stepped into starsong)

They did not kiss.

There was no crown or covenant,

only breathless syntax— a stanza

paused in the throat of a galaxy.

He, still a star: too fierce for orbit,

too volatile for presence.

She, still a muse: made not for flame,

but for guiding what flickers.

But together—briefly—

they burned a bridge of light

between verse and velocity.

Not lovers, not strangers,

but something rarer:

witness and wonder,

both changed by the seeing.

He showed her how even fury

can hold silence tenderly.

She gave him a name not spoken—

                          but sung.

Then, as all myths do,

the moment passed:

he flared forward,

called by collapse. She watched.

And then— stepped into his wake.

No wings. No body.

But a pattern left in light-years—

in how young poets tilt their pens

toward the dark and feel not fear,

                        but fellowship.

Her voice woven now

in the hush between pulses.

His heat a rhythm poets feel

when lines come too fast to be coincidence.

Together, they are not remembered.

They are known each time a word

catches flame without burning the page.

.