I never got the sun,
A shooting star got there first.
So I played catch with the moon
And when I took my hands away
My fingers bore
                            Burns.

But the moon doesn't have flames,
So the fire must be in me.

& from the flames she rose,
as she looked down at her toes
and saw the dirt beneath,
where all the plants would grow

One night when I was eighteen
I was drunk on beers and East end accents
in a Basildon garden lighting fireworks.

I seared my thumb
on the base of a sparked *******
which careened into the fence and dried grass,
igniting in deep welted pain
and a smallish fence fire.

Inside my skin sits once again the same ache
ignited by a spark you nurtured,
which burned us both down,
as beautiful and unruly as the rogue firework and the flames.

his touch is boiling metal,
sweltering to delirium
that wherever his hands of red
take grazing, is swallowed
by the hell fire of his fingers

so once
he caught his lover
in his arms

so that the flames
frenzied upon all him
to hysteria
and incinerated
all
love
like wildfire.

I saw the
colossal
hearts
of this
world
destroyed
by chains,
falling down
their faces was
the residue of
their souls
as they
were watched
by cold eyes,
whose hearts
were so devoured
by the blizzard,
they could not
feel the flames
burning,
the light
of the
beautiful
ones
who broke
the chains,
and rose
as the
thousand
suns of
one

Over the logs and dirt of a camp ground, you still shine. A blazing, bright fire.

Fire is also an element of destruction, of rage, but also of love. The burning red love you have for someone.

But my favourite type of fire is blue fire. Looking like the polar opposite of burning red hot, blue fire is hotter than red.

And to think that a full rainbow can come out of the flames of chaos.

How beautiful is the colour of destruction...