Fire

Fire

Silent is the night of burning.

First comes the wave of petrol,
Into the fragile, thin, metal bin,
Onto the scattered tree that once was,
Then the spark,
Silence,
A roar amongst the garden,
And an orange glow filters the air.

Click, Crack, Whoosh, Roar,
The sound of burning life,
Such a soothing sound,
From something that takes so many,
Lives,
Silence amongst the night,
The deep breath before the roar,
Of a terrible hate.

Steady and heavy is the stench of crumbling ash,
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And the perfume of plastic,
Races through your nose,
It begins to grip and the musk,
Pebbles your nostrils,
The deadly smell of,
Death.

The blaze reaches its peak,
Clumsy, but majestic, claws for the,
Pierced black velvet,
It lives,
Creating orange life from brown death,
A grey fist shadows the garden,
Blanking the stars,
There grows a hint of red,
Passion, danger, love,
Death, life, love,
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The orange flickering,
Bruises the surroundings,
Like a mask,
Shadowed by objects and obstructions,
The bin begins to glow,
And a weakness shines through.

A squint,
The heat is too intense,
Everything shrinks,
A delightful cold wind,
Slaps your features,
It worries you,
Lust,
Death, life, love, lust,
Everything grows,
A wash of warmth,
A sigh of relief,

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The ash spits and finds your tongue,
Sweet, dry, short pain,
The musk heightens,
The fire dies in your disgust,
Rejecting the bitter-short taste of birth,

And so, the embers fall,
No more,
The smoke parts and the glow falls,
To a cold but sure light
It’s had its life and now,
It must die,
Death, life, love, lust, death…
Fire.