Nothing sits except
several cold, dark blocks of
oak wood. But at least
it’s dry and ready
to start sparks, always waiting
for the single flick
that will start as a
slow burn, first in a square inch,
then a square foot, then
the entire wood block,
spreading fierce, tumbling over
all corners, edges.
The fire has started
and it blazes like the sun.
Moths gather around
seeking warmth and light,
grotesquely flapping sideways
unattractive wings
fuzzy, helpless; they
weave through air to red demise.
Would it be painful?
The fur of the wings
crackle and snap, bursting in
a gradient of orange.
A warm end, not death,
but a start to the unknown,
because the flames lure
all that see, dancing
in flexible, elastic
wisps of arms and legs.
My eyes gravitate,
attraction stronger than love,
gravitational.
Illumination
licks my cheeks, it’s gentle, kind,
delicate soft strokes.
Then my nerves feel it.
Thermoreceptors, screaming,
telling me to flee.
The light stirs my skin
like a witch does to her stew;
it boils, blisters, scalds,
a hint of burnt waste
floats in the atmosphere.
It hurts, it hurts, my
muscle seethes in blood,
my bones feel the crimson touch,
Cherry-red, eyeballs
droop, and I then throw
my entire self to She; my
body burns brightly.