Perfection, comatose and broken;
frozen for a moment, only if forever isn’t busy
I watch, and watch and watch;
until a landslide washes through me; on the front lines
quench and rest; their ridicule
like fuel, my pyre searing inward
chard to dust, we rise: purified by flame.
fearless and archaic we are children of the fire
burn burn burn
Awoken by stories of sound, slumber held hostage by imagination. A war between two battlegrounds, time and prose lay sacrifice across the terrain, their bodies laying fruitation to the virile soils of thought.
Burn burn burn.