The mobility of imagination

There was a fire in the eye,
that reflected my independence.
My independence has;
the ability to move forward.
From the time I built a tree house,
I drew the blue-print before.
After, I started to build it?
What a view!
I created the tree-house:
with a few different ideas there I gathered.
High on the branches. -
Not far-down below, there is a ravine.
- Perhaps it was too cold,
frigid.
Perhaps, the tree house caught on Fire.
That was when we cut the old tree down.
TIMBER.
CRASH.
For firewood.
The heat heals me.
A fine intense hot stove of flames,
of crashing wood that burns.
Quite an imagination,
that crackled noise of wood burning. . .
ashes rise.
Nothing can be escaped or can hide it.
The kindness of my inhibition,
that of a sad day in hell.
The calmness of my expressions,
that of a calamity.
That I have not voiced my exterme displeasure.
I have dismissed,
the vulnerable use of any disadvantaged a time.
The riddled anger of an obscenity or not as such.
However, this I have done.
I have swayed into my perfect conditioned attitude.
I have perfected an altitude without myself being in risk of danger.
I am of no greater a need to demonstrate my thoughts or wishes.
For this I pray, I not do.
Not to deprive myself of the imagination.
The occupation I founded.