All the fire in the world
is nothing
comparing to the burn
of a moth from within.
Nothing can heal the itch of carcasses
lusting being released
from the duty of
their separation from the "fire"
but a good burn,
but inferno.
From the clump of the walls
that clog them from their true selves,
pouring into their wings,
transmuting patterns to passion,
figures to ardors,
desires to flames
and inner fire
to
combustion.
