Fire

He spat facts, and spoiled acts– slurs like slaps, and fire-like gasps. I spied them hot, and saved them molten– with a single thought, to serve an art– rotten. When his venomous tongue burned, and turned ashes to earth– churned the muse, in me, all from the hearth. Skimming and scanning memories, I scribbled– brimming with banging furies, it dribbled. Born in fire must burn in fire. Hence, I made heaps of oak pieces, lit them with match, and let the fire catch. Life burned Art burned Breath burned He burned. Fire is pure, so is art, Both to him, are miles apart.