She lit the fire for warmth. 
The room was cold.
It burned with carmine flames, 
And sanguine expectations of illumination
That never came
Due to a shortage of lust and passion
Amongst the men and women in her life.

It was the highest form of praise
For her to even nod
At someone
Today.

That was yesterday,
When the scarlet flames flickered and almost died,
And now the fire was burning in her hearth
And in her ruby heart
Once again.
And something was stirring,
Because of the visions dancing in her head.

Her fear was abating,
Her faith was waxing.
Someone was touching a hidden,
Forgotten,
Rusty and minute flicker in the depths
Of her sensibilities.

It was there.
It had lived in her 
Before she became
What she became.

Before the florid men
And women
She lived for and loved
Turned her
And burned her
And made her into what
She saw reflected in the vermilion flames tonight.

Thinking of an old lover.
Dreaming of him once again,
Far
Or 
Near,
Yet dear,
Alive with energy and heat.

Adding fuel to the umber combustion
Was her need to resume what was lost.
And the light was growing 

Into a carnelian brilliance of exaltation,
Of forgiveness and remembrance
Of the real.
Of the best that had been
And could be again.
The perfect 
Love
For her burning soul.