I am made of fire.
The words that slip off my tongue
are scalding lava.
My actions are small, sharp
knives quick to slice.
The buildings around me are made
of hatred and charred bricks.
Graves of vengeance pile
in the corners.
What is the water to moisten
our parched lips? The soft
gauze to stifle our wounds?
It is what we make it to be.
And what have we made it to be?
Nothing. We are too preoccupied
waging petty wars and spouting lies.
Our wailing ghosts and cackling
demons have led us into the wrong.
We are volcanos, and our
world is being burnt to