Confessions of a Pyromaniac

There often comes a time when

you’re no longer satisfied

with your condition.

You’d rather burn

a whole forest down,

run away from the scene

before the smoke fills your lungs

making you cough to tears.

You are not in control,

but you can induce

this uncontrollable flame,

shake things up,

light a fire

and run like hell.

As the smoke billows

and as you may watch, alone

on a tar-filled empty

street surrounded by tall weeds,

half thrilled at what

you’ve done, half terrified

at what you’ve done,

watching what might have been

billow into the sky

recalling snapshots

environmentalists like to show

of smoke stacks, admitting

this collective effort

to destroy this world,

and you do your bit

to leave your destructive mark

on the surface of the earth.

Smoke rises

as you see the trees catch

fire, flames launching

from fifty foot stilts into the sky,

giant torches

heralding sirens, the forest

all but burned, simmering

among ash, charred bark standing

tall and black, ready

to be blown away

by any gust of wind,

ready to fall finally down.

You may think it isn’t fair,

so here’s gas and matches -

this is who we are.