I look back
Into the room of black
Leaving it all behind
Out of sight, out of mind
Yet it follows me
Darkness is all I see
Follow the light
Continue the fight
Fading like my hope
The light helps me cope
But gone it will soon be
I will see
Only darkness around
So profound
Running to it
I'll never fit
I did not
Guess I'll sit here and rot

As if directed by dark unseen forces
spreading from an acrid domain
flames ignited consuming everything
flames ignited consuming everything
once arid forests and homes
swiftly succumbed to the raging fires
rising into black smoke spires!

Devouring all living matter in its wake
nothing sacred with such heat
those grasslands now totally destroyed
nothing left but smoldering ashes
in communities no matter their prestige
as each became under siege!

Ferocious and hungry any daylight masked
their lungs gasping to breath
trapped as they perilously tried to escape
the routes to safety fading
facing ahead death anguish and disbelief
victims united by loss and grief!

From the ashes soon comes another dawn!

#TheFoureyedPoet.

I try to sit down and write something fantastic and elegant
But then I feel my stomach rumbiling
No matter what time in day it is
I'm always hungry where I want to devour everything that's food in sight.

A lonesome quiet autumn night
With my twitching, pouring sight

Some just might, hold one tight
As lonesome as this quiet autumn night

With self-devouring, melancholy
I as many, you as few
We'll be alright in this chilly, jolly
quiet, moony midnight dew

(In a letter to his wife,  Wallace Stevens, confided that writing was "absurd" as well as fulfilling.  What of reading the write?)
What makes you read on?  Exquisite words?  Or
Exquisite thoughts?  Ah, exquisite words forming
Exquisite thoughts.  At times so beauteous as to be
Painful!  Meter clipping along, tremulous tones trilling,
Making the reader thrill in the "Ah, yes!" moment.
Writing poetry is absurd, if you think about it.  
An absurdity bore of necessity.  
The reading, a veracious devouring
Of sustenance.  The substance of souls poured out.