Burning

Within the blazing fire,
Crackling and hissing afar,
Melting and bending window panes in my sight,
Cracking of the walls all around,
Suffocated by a mist of smoke,
I’m sitting in a chair.
Amidst a burning house,
Lively, actively burning house.

Has it not been for the flames,
I would have run.
I suppose.

Has it not been for the smoke,
I would have screamed.
Maybe.

Has it not been for the locked door,
I would have escaped.
Probably.

Has it not been for my smoked ego,
Or wounded hypocrisy,
I would have screamed
Of the top of my lungs.
I think.

If I were not busy falling apart,
I would have stood and walked.
If it wasn’t the blazing fire all year round,
I would have tried to put it out.
Yet,
The panic of living in a burning house,
The exhilaration of fading in the ashes,
The fright of being muffled by the smoke,
The forlorn of asking for help,
Hazed out in the abyss,
Of a burning bliss.
I live in a burning house.
Till the fire absorbs,
I, myself, and my chair.