Fire And Fan

At first I thought I was the fire
Of my arts but I'm just a fan.
Not the flame's master,
But the ranting rain's span.

Fire and flame being one but ajar,
Like a pop blues, hinted at cymbals.
Gentle whooses of the fan lend the flame life,
Yet if wavy winds tame whooses, the life knows strife.

Fire and fan inflected, borrowed coats.
One makes the rhymes, the other makes it glow.
But a gloated pentameter with end-line scheming,
Makes a "The Way I Am", Shady.

But how could I be a fire and a fan?
Though flame ignites, but the breeze?
Being the one talked about and the one talking?
My Pen in (penning) acrobats blow and glow as much as they can!;
Well, frantic flames dance, so does the breeze!
So, my argument comes to a peace.
    '21:12:18:09:09

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