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Beauty in Flames at Such a Young Age

A Poem

By Charles WoodPublished 5 years ago 2 min read
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The three story thrift store

Burned

In the south

I was eight maybe

When we’d go

Every Sunday and buy

dead people’s items left behind

Or used items would be

a nicer way to say it

There was no stairs in the entire building

Just wheel chair ramps

The higher you went

The older and less valuable

Items became

Sunday night was when I saw it

Roaring out the windows of golden crimson flames

Trying to escape and expand with the air

I was passing by in the van with

my mother and grandmother

I sat in the back and looked in awe

Fire fighters filled the street

Directing traffic but no one wanted to move

They were as shell shocked as me

It was beautiful as the building cried flames

We were on our way to T.J’s Burgers for dinner

We could not pass though

Everyone including me were all frozen

The whole sky or space around us just glowed orange

Orange flickering flames around us like a massive bonfire

We were stuck there

Stuck there to witness

The ugliest building in the south burn in a beautiful glory of flames

It was the first time id seen a fire that huge

So hot as well when the wind blew its radiant heat towards us

It become beautiful

It brought out the pyromania in me

I was taken by its beauty

For weeks

I was burning stuff

With lighters I stole from my aunt’s cigarettes

I burned news paper’s

Trash, grass, hair, anything that would catch

I wanted to reenact the beauty from the building on flames

I needed to see it again, memory was not enough

I tried to go bigger

I lit my aunts curtains on fire

From the bottom

I watched as it grew

From a small flame to it was half way up in flames

Close to burning my own grandmothers house

I tried to stop it but knew nothing about the dangers

Of fire

It was beyond me

I ran and got water but nothing stopped it

My blood was rushing the same way as I watched the building burn

I grabbed the curtain from the rail and pulled it down

I began smashing it with my shoes

No one was home

The flame died as I stomped it viciously

It calmed my eight-year-old self down

Hid the curtain and aired the house

Continued watching my cartoons

And thought about the fire

Maybe memory was enough I thought to myself

Fire was to dangerous and uncontrollable

I never started one again

Not in the house at least

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Charles Wood

Instagram: @depersonalisation_

Write what you feel, even if it doesn't make sense.

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