there is a fire burning inside

you, fuelled by the icy fingers

of apathy and the slippery

puddles of misunderstanding.


piece of wood after piece

of wood. piece of wood

against piece of wood. a

flame starts.

(wood has nothing to

do with this at all)


the icy fingers hold you in

place and the puddles slip you

up and the rain pelts at you

as the fire within you rages mindlessly.


the damage is done when a

third unwitting piece of

wood is thrown callously.

this fire consumes.


the screams are melded into

one, caught by the trees and

whispered by the rustling leaves to

passers-by. how you wish you

could be them. for (and lean

closer because this is a secret

carried beneath the folds of the

layers of the blaze) sometimes, before

the night is illuminated by your

flare, words hurt.


in the end, the raindrops do

nothing, for this flame is one

sentenced to the sad fate of

burning out.


in the aftermath of the

conflagration, the

gossipy trees stand

stock-still, whispering,

"low blow, low blow."


the insincere apologies do

nothing to clear your

mind of the ashes.