Last night
I saw the fire dancing.
Its red and orange skin
sparked a spotlight
across the dark skies.
Its flame shapes
into fiery eyes,
and looked through me
with a crooked smile
as it dances a haunted,
quiet dance of death.
Echoes of crack screams,
the smoke twisted,
forming into old,
tortured souls—

Fragment memories too…

I woke up tired
this morning.
As I walk out,
the smell of smoke
still kills the air.
I watched as the
world burns—

Myself too…

While looting was a
major concern during
the current catastrophe,
I saw the opportunity;
as a murderer and a thief,
I wouldn’t have to creep in
and be discreet anymore,
I could just boldly
walk in and pick anyone out
and take their wallet,
bludgeon them to death,
if I like, and take
all their cash, and leave
them there; unfortunately
I was thwarted again, by
the unfortunate circumstance
of my own demise, this hospital
room, and all these tubes which
connect me to that life I abhorred.

The one question
lingers in my mind,
It burns my soul deep inside…

“If I wrote you a poem
about your flames,
Will you stop
burning your fire?”

Reading poems from,
2013-2018,
On here is like,
Walking through the graves,
Of dead poets,
Who breathed breath,
And sang songs,
For years just like us,
But they aren't on here today,
To show us that,
They breathed breath,
And sang songs,
Before their beloved art's,
Death.