I’ve burned my bridges. I’ve set alight the tunnels. The match is burning. The gasoline is alive. The bomb is one explosion away from an inferno. Some people don’t like the fire. But I am the fire. The flames reach higher than the sky. No fear because I’ve been set ablaze. Gunpowder has gone away. This atrocity is ferocious. This diesel is breathtaking. Jet fuel is another alternative. My torch won’t run out. The smoke ignites. The pit goes up in a flash. The melting flickers. The cremation remains. The ashes are broiled and incinerated. I am the arsonist. I am the fire. I am indestructible.
About the Creator
Anna Torres
I’m a 37-year old mother. I love reading, metal music, and writing. I have begun writing again since 2021
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Siren’s song
The song is a lullaby. An epic tune meant to lure me into a trap. The sirens are brainwashers. They are the cause of my yearning. Dark matter is light. They are cunning. They play their screwed up games. I am tethered and out of control. A mermaid on land, a goddess that drowns. They seduce me with lies. They rape me with deception. It’s an infection. My dilemma is my death. A diety with her sights on me. My muse, my inspiration, my undoing. Their voices are fatal. Creators of human destruction. The pagans had no better plan. I can’t seem to run away. A prophetic prostitute. A virgin deflowered. Immoral conquests. I can’t undo the past. I can’t look away. An ancient basilisk. A forgotten fable. They call to passing travelers and they call to me. Enchantress, why do you torment me? Why do you charm the life out of me? Witch, why do you bewitch me? Am I prey to be ensnared? To be spellbound by an infatuation? Why do you mesmerize me? Make me forget about all I know? How do I repel you? Why do you enslave me? Magnetic, enamored. I go to the water to be submerged, to hallucinate. To inhale the flood, to soak in the swamp. The marsh invites me. I go to be devoured. I yield. I go to be free.
By Anna Torres3 years ago in Poets
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford6 days ago in Fiction
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