tarnished clothes and burnt hands
seldom do we find such tragedy
In the ambiance of these wicked flames
third degree to nothing at all
scars and blackness consume
the flesh covering the elusive
Water, blood, and brimstone
Trying to become one
A tonic for the soul
Consumed by nothing but He himself
Reminiscent of tar and ash
closing in like the catcher in the rye
Inhabiting our minds by the hour
ticking closer to the new
may He grant so much as to one more minute
and the species in his mutinous way
Fighting these demons to the death
Reminiscent of the wars we wage
Grant me Peace from this Place.