A fire does burn across with a sharp hiss,
Scorching the Earth to her sacred core,
As I wandered down a burning crevice,
To meet the very flames her land did bore.
The grass had burnt to a cinder powder,
As I inhaled in the past ashen life,
The echoing laugh of fate grew louder,
And the fire took me as his wasted wife.
The cuffs of poker wood around these wrists,
Burnt to scars, rings of such passionate lust,
The evolution of cancerous cysts,
And by the Sun’s heat, I turned to fair dust.
Regretting a gander towards the light,
Fooled by deceiving sexual fever,
To be nothing but smoldering spite,
And in wastelands, a penitent griever.
