His face of flame and ember coals.
His veins glow through body and soul.
Anger took what he couldn’t control.
This burning man without a role.
He had a wonderful personality.
Delightfully funny.
But cinders formed in the tinderbox of his heart.
His wicked knack for self destruction.
A wicked lust for fires elation.
He’d burn the world to smile at the soot.
The things he cared for, the ones he mistook.
And it’d bring him joy if only for a moment.
While it crackled in it’s orange hues.
And his flames of violent blues.
And he’d cry, as we all do.
Gasoline soaked.
His throat full of smoke.
The plumes in his lungs sipping the oxygen to a choke.
Why did he do it? Why couldn’t he say?
The burning man without cause or way.
Burn yourself alive, just to play.
You devious thing.
You played them all.
And what was it worth?
Through pride and pitfall.
They held true to you.
But you didn’t for them.
You’re the evil wrapped up in a man.
Until your fire’s coals lay in the sand.
Trying to feed, urging in demand.
Until you burned the fabric of a soul.
The one you desperately swore, that you hadn’t sold.
About the Creator
S.W.
A poet by way of life. Words just came easy to me, though I may never write a bestseller. I just want you to feel understood. At the end of my work if we’re closer than when you started reading I’ve done my part.
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