I Dreamt of Fire

I dreamt of fire
and it burned out a star.
Inviting shades and shadows
of past promises to dance
in the darkness newly created
in the wake of this phantasmic
supernova.
They come dressed with culture
but circle like wolves.
Sneering, howling, snapping
their jaws in anticipation of
warm blood that tastes of depression
and a fresh kill.

I smell of sulphur.
Like a pious thinker sitting
on a mountain of dead constellations
casting empty prose into the sky
so they echo and placate a need for
self-destruction.
Fear the mind embraced by spirits,
as oft it speaks the will of a somber,
sober heart who dreams of being
dashed among Rocks again
in so visceral a way, erosion comes
like jolting ecstasy.

I sift through ash
of a libertarian evening
that crescendoed of whispers
spoken carelessly yet muted
under the breaths of doubt and
self deprecation.
The heart is like a mortar,
a shell of destruction that falls,
without notice, to rain beautiful death.
Even in the face of a neon moon
overlooking a crowded garden, it
begs to explode.

I dreamt of fire
and it snuffed out our star.
A brilliant ball of romance
halted by a declaration of happiness
and a poisonous well that served
once a jubilant visage.
Now left here is a darkened canvas
painted thick of lines with no connection.
Just sprawling hands looking to hold
on to the ignorance lost that night but
finding only our backs.