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Fire

A paper tiger thrown into the funeral pyre

A roar of smoke

Claws and teeth, now ashes.

Yellow and red, the flame grows

Feeds off the air, burns the flesh

Casts dancing shadows on the ground

A wooden smell

Is not the world on fire?


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“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay to mold me man?

Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?”

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