There is no way to understand those who burn.
Burn like the flames that envelope a hardened heart.
Hearts that have turned to stone.
Stone that crumbles into pebbles and shards of dust.
Dust that dries my throat and ruffles my skin.
Skin that is so fragile even feathers bring pain.
Pain prolongs the grief.
Grief so shattering it’s breaks your bones.
Bones that are supposed to hold you up.
Up like the trees.
Trees with their escaping leaves.
Leaves can’t be held back.
Back - the place I wish to change.
Change - the most improbable and painful theory.
Theories of fate, divine intervention, and calm.
Calm like the seas when they stand still.
Still as the time.
Time- there is never enough.
Enough of this madness.
Madness of a genius so morose.
Morose as one who has lost breathe.
Breathe as though the lungs were made to sing.
Sing the words that wont come out.
Out like the cry of a wolf.
Wolves that wander towards the horizon.
A horizon that draws the birds.
Birds that fly.
Fly through the ever mysterious air.
Air that can be both necessary and intoxicating.
Intoxicating as the rush of a touch.
A touch soft and gentle.
Gentle but crushing as the storm.
Storms within a torn mind.
Minds overwhelmed by unreasonable prejudices.
Prejudices that shape a being into that of adoration or anguish.