There was a fire.
The house burned down
The fire's long over
but the street still smells of smoke.
There's possessions on the front lawn
that's too small to play football on.
There's a lamp shade.
And then the roof is caving in like a bottomless pit and it's black,
Black like the footsteps of flames
because that's what it is.
and the houses nearby are unaffected,
Their yards too small and their values slightly overpriced but that's all normal.
And then a stranger walks by,
Smelling barbecue,
Then seeing death.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryAll of our colors are different, and mine are still lost to oblivion. You can watch me try to find them.
