The hearth of
white marble,
seasoned lightly
with shining
flecks of
obscure black.
The wood,
cradled by the
sizzling metal grate,
crackling
and at it's redhot feet
piles of ash
gleaming yellow and red.
The red glow
illuminates my flesh
sending angle-flattering
shadows upon
my face
putting my features
to prominence.
I put my hand
out above the
flames,
the tendrils
licking at my palm
like a leaping
dark orange tongue
slithering between my
fingers like many
multiheaded snakes.
The idea of pain
nags at my conception
of what is real.
I feel nothing
but the pressure
of the atmosphere
as it grows heavy
and suffocating, smothering
crushing my lungs.
Suddenly,
there is no air.
There is only
fire and light.
Such a strong
vengeful fire,
I wonder if it
has the ability
to be snuffed,
to burn low
With embers flitting
about like pixies
in the night.
Images cast in the
changing lights,
dreamlike faces,
deep caves and
strange alien landscapes.
A circus of seductive
fiery gypsies, a menagerie
of tiny dancers
playing with
the fire, the light, a custom
conflagration
to call me, to draw me
among them, their bright
flame meant to
distract, trick the mind
into submission.
Pulling at my
consciousness,
pulling at my will
dragging me away from
the depth of the
reality of death.
I realize that
I'm dying
that now I am
Of flesh and flame.