Open Wide The Gates Of Flame

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Situations when you need to say something or should say something or should have said something, how those things build and grow, and what happens when it gets to be too much

Submitted: April 05, 2016

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Submitted: April 05, 2016

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Open Wide The Gates Of Flame

 

 

I stomp the ground,

It caves in under my foot,

floor falling into nothingness

the earth beneath cracking

and heaving,

I can smell raw dirt

I can feel the world

collapsing, and the darkness

is unleashed

followed by a bright flash

and intense heat of

flames

slowly growing under the surface

an oil fire of anger and sadness

raging and swirling

feeding on itself

like emotional cannibalism.

Then everything explodes.

There is nothing I can do

to control it.

Once unleashed,

the whole situation is out

of my hands.

The blaze has been building

uncontrollably

for weeks,

unattended,

unwatched,

it has become uncontainable.

 

Fueled by things that should have been said

but weren't,

by feelings that should have been expressed

but were ignored,

arguments that needed to happen

but were avoided.

The flames consume me

swirling around my heart

igniting my soul

they combust

outward again

from my eyes

the world becomes

a kaleidoscope of red and orange and yellow

my throat is on fire,

I spit and flames spew forth

molten words burn

black holes in the carpet

smoke rolls from

the scorched floor,

plumes rise

and I take in a deep breathe

of ash,

filling my lungs, my throat, my stomach

my brain, my whole existence

with fire and smoke and ash.

 

Everything is burning,

I am melting away,

My hair is burning

My clothes are burning,

tattering and splitting, dropping away from me

leaving me naked and scarred

My rug is burning

My furniture is burning

My house is falling apart and burning

My whole life is falling apart and burning.

My body is embers,

falling apart and burning

I try to take a step,

but my leg crumbles and collapses

a pile of tender and nothing more,

Losing my balance,

no longer able to support the weight

I reach with my hand

to catch myself

as I fall forward,

but it blows away in a gray cloud,

cinder blowing in wind

watching my wrist and then arm

up to my elbow become a gray cloud.

I want to call out, to scream

but my words are napalm,

my mouth,

the open gates of Hell.

As I burn away,

wishing I could cry,

All I can do

is hope for rain.

And if I were a praying man

now is when I would start.


© Copyright 2017 thomas grant. All rights reserved.

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