Burned and still smoldering,
I am the wreckage of your deceit,
I am the black box that won’t forget
how you began your descent.
This fire is electric, this fire is eclectic,
I have words, I have memory, and
photographs, singed and tarnished maybe,
the innocent bystander in your immolation.
And this might be called a controlled burn,
but not because of you, fire-starter.
The flames have their own mind, now,
and it’s made up, no room for barter.
I’m the side of a barn, lit up by fireworks,
a dying star dragging all in its path, as it lurks.