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