Flames That Burn

Mute clashes on tortured battlefields,

Cascade in blue bloodlines on rusty pages,

On pensive land they draw territories.

With penitent sips of 'evening tea',

They keep their houses warm by burning history.

From its flames emerge utopias illusional,

Dancing on symphonies of sacrifice.

And those symphonies are stuck in our heads,

We remember how they start,

But not how they end.

We succumb to their servitude.

For the mirth of our flame's manifesto,

We burn down riches and homes and bones.

(Igniting bones a personal

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catharsis,

Pushing pragmatism in parenthesis.)

Like a child's fervor the flame now run amok.

It brandishes the corpse of our only child.

It whispers into our ears blazing secrets best left aloof.

The malicious fog of vendetta rises,

Revealing in its masters mirror our own sinister countenance.

Abandoned by our illusion we search for the exit sign

But smoke fills our eyes so we can see no more

It heals our wounds so we can bleed no more

Until there is no one left in the room but we

And everybody is sipping their 'evening tea