Salamanders possess the ability to extinguish,
and this is only a riddle for those who can't relinquish.
Fear, power, and rapacious desire.
Every tail of you has its own foretoken tale,
mired in swampy waters
mucked away from the truth
colloiding in suspenseful collusion.
This tail is a scurrilous caboose
behind all that we stand up for.
Though we follow its trail of seductive chartreuse,
finding heads on the tails, as if waging its war,
taunting an attack on this foreign illusion.
For how else could one tell if they are heeding a collusion?
This hydra is an illusion,
yet feels as though real,
only when met as fear
in our distasteful confusion.
For a tail never deliberately heads
towards what is harmful.
As it always follows what is most fiercely vulnerable.
With this underbelly of understanding,
soft yet supple
the guardian of the invulnerable.
Yet we follow this pursuit of a familiar, impassioned pathway.
Chasing that rush of sensation, only to feel its fade.
The zeal contained is of a toxic shade:
Salamandrian, regenerating its bitter taste,
its tale's end has its own fate.
For that is the tail of desire's bait.
Trying to catch one's own tail,
only beckons a fool's gait.
As fire rages in zeal without any wait.
Our flame can be used to charm,
acting as hearth and home.
Yet it can also be used to harm,
scorching ourselves into an extinct catacomb.
Our story might seem perilous,
at wits end.
Maimed in the despair.
When our story is seemingly in disrepair,
sometimes 'fate' chooses
to chop off our own tale.
For that is how sickness regenerates.
Rumi once sowed hearts to till,
if you desire healing, let yourself fall ill let yourself fall ill,
for that is love's own pill.
Oh- that is life's own thrill.
For there is divinity in our dirt,
and infinity in our hurt.
This holy trinity:
heaven, hell, and all our tales, mutually follow the path
of interdependent affinity.