He likes fire. Who doesn't?


The Arsonist

Softly chant arsonic visions
Laughing wide as fields of green
Of green they were, of long and far
I spotted to the left of my car
The largest nothing I had seen
The dust was dancing on the road
A road as black as fingers smoked
The pupils squirming left abode
To find a place where smokeless choked
I did a little dance myself
But to what tune I could not tell
And lit the grasses green ablaze
A fire that would dance for days
I danced nearby, a dauntless elf
With heat matched only by the deepest hell
The time had flown, the flame with taste
Had licked the air with flicker flare
It sung a tune that I could too
A howler's moon to crawl into
The field I left to bitter waste
For cause was nothing out of place
In there it grew, my fire rose
Smelled bittersweet, with frightful sting
We danced, us two, to gently swing
The boom that came crescendo sling
Alas, I'd parked the car too close



Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 460 times
Written on 2007-05-05 at 01:56

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I can relate. Many of my childhood memories are built around the mesmerizing fingers of fire.... good stuff - your poem, I mean!
2007-05-05