He could have breathed in misty mornings.
He could have told the rain to come or to go.
He could have breathed in the scent of dawn,
and maybe had run through the gray some more.
He could have calmed himself down in cool,
collected days, sitting with the parents
on the evening deck.
But he lives for red, not white or gray.
He lives for color.

His fingers hold the cold key and with a click
he locks it all behind.
They can pound on the door and scream threats
through the wood,
but he flicks the remaining ashes at the ground
and smiles as flames go up.

Fire loves wood, but it loves gas more,
and with a rush of heat,
the house is swallowed up.
And somewhere, walking into the gray dawn
is a teenage boy with scorch marks on his shirt.
And not long after the sun comes up
they track him down,
and push him to the ground.
Ice metal grips his wrists
and sirens ring behind his eyes.

But he only smiles.
Who else do they want?
Arson is such an ugly word.
He set them free.
With a casual motion,
he holds out the white bottle,
rattling the pills to be found there.
He's just another one of them,
real or not.
Arson is such an ugly word.

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