FIRE:

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

standing at the cusp of swelling cardinal and gold,

the awaiting mob—rumbling—poised to ignite,

you don’t see them throw the first metaphoric stone,

but then a spark—

then it catches,

bursting brilliant like a star,

a dissentious cabaret of smoke and splendid light.

cresting waves of amber coalesce, and

crash over a junkyard of boxes and planks,

an industrial tower of babel.

licks of orange teeth tear the sacrificial cutout bear to cinders,

before climbing to swim in the ether of the night air,

its ghosts frolicking in the black,

marrying with the stars.

the inferno beckons with its sensuous overture of gentle crackling,

melding with the catcalls of the manic crowd,

teasing you to run your hands through its dancing ribbons,

flirting with the flames— a game of chicken—

as it scorches your face with its devilish caress,

its sweet low hiss reassuring

as you stare into the belly of

the raging great red beast of blake’s nightmares.

the captive masses,

moths irrevocably drawn to their wrathful god,

unable to avert their eyes,

or escape the lull of its hollow promised victories,

no more than Lot’s wife could turn away from Sodom.

a stampede of sand and water beats the blaze back,

but still it rages on, it rages harder,

revolting against those that dare deny its glory,

lashing with its flailing tendrils as though to

drag them into its infernal bowels.

its swan song of sunset explosions,

and violent plumes roaring retribution,

evaporates into indignant sputters,

as the bonfire is put to rest,

and coughing embers flicker into ash.