Down In Flames -

Purified or destroyed by fire.

You decide on the

Evidence.

A child bride, some Freudian ire.

Summarized in

A burning bed.

Blazing sheets, all our glowing springs

Beneath.

And cinders flying up the wall.

It’s no surprise

That our histrionic rise became my meteoric fall.

Down in

Flames, down in flames.

Consign to ashes every claim.

She

Dressed in red on the day that we wed.

And beneath the

Nightsky’s crimson wing the opalescent moon, the

Goatsucker’s croon—how could anyone help but sing?

Down

In flames, down in flames.

Consign to ashes every claim.

Posthumous rumours of the son that could have saved you.

Sustained an insult in the womb.

Wounded pride.

A co-

Worker’s suicide.

And other things he beat you to.

You

Know that vine that you always did admire—that suffocates

The competition?

Propped up on their bones, it reaches

For the sky?

That’s you alright, sister.

I’ve looted my

Life to the very walls to find the nidus of my

Discontent.

I do recall that I had the gall to give up

Church for lent.