Spitting, hurling
hot sparks.
Randomly they fall
on paper-thin defenses.
Like love letters,
they burn quick ’round the edges.
Chard rims border
a center intact.

Shining, lighting
lacerations sore.
Bright in the
orange-glow of rage.
Like neon signs,
wounds glare with
the poison they contain.
Scars mark our folly
on the records of our skin.

Floating, propelling
progress forward.
With the gait
of an afternoon stroller,
you amble
through frantic flames.
Lost souls never know,
when it is they wander.

Fanning, working
wild fires.
They nudge your body
but never change your course.
Nor spend the oxygen
in your screaming lungs.
Torches shed light
as long as they’re fueled.

Feeding, making
mad fury
the heat ripens it.
Like summer grapes,
anger in your mouth sweeter
as the air grows hotter.
The fruit of nurtured pain
makes for bittersweet wine.


For Three Word Wednesday (http://www.threewordwednesday.com/)
gait, nudge, ripen


5 thoughts on “Wildfires

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