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Friday, June 06, 2008

Soul Apocalypse

the fire started
when he wasn't looking,

it drifted in

screams uprooted
from the inside,

sparks screeched
and writhed,

deafening music,
consuming claws gripping

the face with gold, red, and bronze
buried deep, fusing
heated air with his pores,

the scent of meat
on the grill, toasting

a fiery-orange torment
of scars slowly shaping,


with over-joyous welts,

restraints melting skin,
running in shivers
through the spirit,

a bloody print
of a private narrative,

the man moaned in the glow,
in sharp-edged light,

the pain flaring up
his body like a cigarette
too long forgotten,

with the after-taste of
brimstone, or chewing something rotten,

hell's breath in his hair
calling for his head,

the slow eclipse of logic
that comes for the dead,

a soul apocalypse;
yet the man
just shook away all help,

it's okay,
this is like love,

he said.

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