All trees have been
or will be on fire.
The wind is on fire
in a blizzard, 30 below.
When my head is on fire
burning grass dissuades it
and fire creeps down
to my throat lungs heart
and fire (finally) is in my blood, my mind.
Fire in South America,
Brazil is burning,
and the gasoline and
blood is on our hands.
Both are on fire.
Tires have always been
on fire, they will continue to burn.
Oil is on fire as it
rockets from a well.
100,000 Iraqis dead,
traded for a plume
and a tar-black flame.
The burning building hammers
down upon our helmets
as we struggle to haul barrels out.
So much for
an exit plan.
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- All poetry is supposed to be instructive but in an unnoticeable manner; it is supposed to make us aware of what it would be valuable to instruct ourselves in; we must deduce the lesson on our own, just as with life. -Goethe
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