Disturbing confession
I I… I… I, mischievous tiny word, as skimpy as the ninth letter in the alphabet, as shameful as a man relishing on the dancing flames when wood bursting meets oxygen, heat and light and wildness. “Not my fault.” “Not , my fault.” I keeps saying on repeat. Those words would fall flat, but they are slippery enough to fade into breeze, mimicking the gloomy smoke facing up to the blue, so mad. I looks, but do not see doom, dearth, death coming like a knife in the sleeve. Greed, Carbon Dioxide, Deflorestation, Drought we decease, lacking rhymes to write poetry without grimes. I set fire I set fire I set fire I set fire I set fire I set fire I set fire I set fire to a three just to please me