But there was a fire in the distance.
A spark,
a spirit a spoken word of sorrow.

It was a faint flicker of feeling,
of fire, of flame. That sparked a spirit,
after a spoken word of sorrow.

A dousing of damp drowning rain,
A spoken word of sorrow smothering,
the spirit of the flame.

But the flowers bloomed,
the fire, was started.

After the rain and pain of that,
word of sorrow shouted out,
spoken and solemn.

Though the faint flicker of light,
of fire was in the distance that flame it was far away,
it gave me a feeling of hope,
a spark more than a spark a spirit to fly away with after a dousing drowning rain,
that smothered the fire of a spoken, shouted word of sorrow rain that died after,
it poured and doused drowning all spark that could flame a spirit, dripping the ice cream out of the cone and onto the hard asphalt ground making my clothes damp weighing me down. Even though I am on a tight rope rain weighing me down almost falling off like the ice cream out of the cone. I was deterimined and soon, the rain was gone.
It drained.
And I saw,
a fire in the distance.