The shadow of a man
is his own personal devil.

Blackened, charred, slanted, clinging

to his heels.

A parasitic smoke
from the fire of life,

which burns within a man.

The flames of glory
that he churns

whip in blue, breathe in gold
and pulse in white,

and are pure in glow:

emitting no ashes.

But sadistic flames of red

rip furiously through the system

tearing, crashing, razing
  
the harmony.

Conceiving the ash and delivering

the shadow.