Controlled Burn

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.