An Assessment of the Fire's Immediate Aftermath

Three hours suppressed before breaching the tight-lipped container left neatly wrapped in homogenous foam and smoky demeanor. Its lid caved in, having been tapped. Through misspoken holes sprung arcadian visions, lacking Peloponnese disposition, still semi-smoldering with the tinder touch of Hephaestus extracted from less subtle artistry attributed Zeus, high up on his steed, bare-chested. Arms crossed. How he used to look down on we mortals, wee, buttressed by oxygen, in two- parts hydrogen, one-part dioxide. But this was real, not some Florescent church. Outside the perimeter lay black stacks of texts I had gradually gathered through time’s non-existence, way back when time weighed as factual matter. Of course they still mattered. Yet, I chose them to lay there, bathed in the soot of three daughters I failed to veil. What do you say, Rita Dove? to wear my white-skinned daughters spun lesser as still lovelier silk? Is there anything clumsier to misappropriate than weather-vane hate, with its gallant gait, with its augmented pigmentation, when there’s no room in storage? A grey-haired protestant behind me prayed; “Oh, Thank God! Oh! Thank God” He praised through my bedroom window’s socket, shocked to shatter by fire, fresh come splattered beard. I had not known him prior, this man I would learn was a fair-weather friar. So; I blew him a kiss. But in my eyes, he saw an unwell wish, so; It needs to be done with this.