Coals burn and embers churn, and the room is rimmed with smoke.
Soot-stained hands grab a scuttle and yank a girly clump.
The clump’s hair is night, and its center bright.
It opens its blue bloodless lips and imagines it can speak a truth.
“I must have seen that a thousand times; I don’t need it this time.”
"Oh don't bother those burns you have aren't for me."
The clump is held above its blazing hell spitting in the dark.
“Oh, that's quite close enough; I can feel the burn from here.”
“You see, I know how that feels; we pieces talk, you know.”
The lips mouth words they believes have some meaning.
Its cheeks flush with an excitement it thinks it knows.
Fingers slip, and down it drops its pretty proud face into ash.
Its hair comes alight, and it screams in such sugary delight.
That beautiful smile singes and burns; the ebony bob turns to white.
The discordant song fills the air, and the fires dance in the night.
“I already knew this, you know; why have me see the light!”
"Why hold me here if your hands will come alight?"
Scars pit its surface, and blood squeals as tiny bubbles pop.
Flicker by flicker the pale face melts and comes to ash.
Out of the pile at the last light comes a single whisper and whine.
"I never knew how much the flames did burn."
"I already knew this, you know; how much fire can harm."
"We clumps talk you know."
The coal shovel scoops it up and sings only one sad verse.
"To each their own I chant to you."
"To one and another I will come for you."
"To you and you and you and you."
"I reach for you and will come due."
"Only ask of me for one small treat."
"And you may sit at my feet."
Soot-stained hands grab a scuttle and yank a girly clump.
“I must have seen that a thousand times; I don’t need it this time.”
The clump lands by the feet.
Maybe the fire isn't something earned.