It’s funny how a chair in a picture,
in a house you used to walk in and out of,
like it was your own, like you lived there
because you almost sort of did –
it’s funny how that chair – just in the background
sitting there like a book or a shelf
or some other thing that has found its place there –
that chair, let me tell you, it’s a memory
hidden right there in plain sight.
it’s seen a lot, that chair has,
holds a lot of memories and if you look here
at this picture, maybe you can see them.
or maybe not, because after all,
it is just a chair. a piece of furniture,
can’t talk at all, or so you’d think.
but it’s okay. it’s okay.

she’s burning coal,
chasing fire like the wind,
red spots, hot spots,
foggy and misty,
she’s chokin’ on smoke
and tasting memories
that burn her throat.
eyes red. heart black.
she’s on fire.
she’s the fire.
destruction everywhere she turns
the worlds on fire
it’s a beautiful agony
she burning earth
scorching everything she touches
raining fire,
pouring heat,
embers and atoms
she can’t stop
the tornado she’s become
will not be wilted by water
will not be slowed raging seas
she’s burning, endlessly
blazing internally, eternity
only thing to calm her,
is another fire,
burning just as fierce
as her own.