• The Burning House

    As I walked silently into the forest, I was searching for embers. When I couldn’t find any, I tore down the hollow trees and set their insides for my oil. I wasn’t welcome; I’d never been, yet I still continued to return to the house of dreams, almost as if I enjoyed the pain.

    And wasn’t it lovely, the streaks of orange, red, and white that lifted towards our open world? The clouds that stretched across the sky; I reached for them, and found myself burned. White and shining, they held no gift to the storm within.

    Suddenly, I wished for rain.

    Crunched against my hardened feet, I walked the path uphill to top – to what, I wondered as I looked back – for the road was as flat as it had ever been. Was I dreaming? How I wished – the smell of cinders burned my face as I continued my ever upward stride along the straight and narrowed path.

    And wasn’t it lovely, the billows of black that grabbed the sky and smothered the wind and sun in its grasp? I wanted to hate it as it drew me in, like a predator to its knowing prey. This cloud isn’t white; it’s dirty and black, full of shame and lies and hate. Horrid and smoldering, it holds no gift – yet there’s no storm.

    Desperately, I wished for rain.

    None came, and I arrived.

    Shudders crying out with fire. Roofs and doors consumed with fire. Great tables full of feasts of fire – all in this world anew. The phoenix cries; it has given birth, as it dies within the roar of fire. I want to weep, I want to sleep, I want the sky to scream for me – but nothing comes over the roar of fire. Nothing for this little blasphemer.

    My stinging face, my tearing eyes, I stare at the orange and red and white. It pulls me forward, it opens its arms, and the illusion forms of a perfect home. A wonderful splendor, so sweet I dare not wish to leave.

    I cast my paint, draw forward my wood, and name the place by the smell of its walls.

    “The Burning House”

    And I set you alight.

    Into the forest I ran.