incendiary words meant to consume
the essence of all in its path.
A logical progression
in the succession of all things in sight.
Leaving nothing behind,
an endless string of pathos and heart,
a man who could fashion line,
chapter and verse, and what’s worse,
stand by his convictions to rise
above the smouldering ashes,
proverbial phoenix of passion’s pyre.
The fire within becomes his sin,
leaving nothing in his wake,
taking stock of every nuance
of worded profundity, the undoing
of a finely crafted association,
no celebration; no elation.
Just the station to which he has
himself resigned. For in his mind,
he holds the flint that will spark
his survival; a revival. He will not
look back lest he turn to salt.
Poetic Gomorrah is burning.
He will not fan the flames.
Just let the bastard burn and walk away.