One night, as I laid next to a mountain campfire, you arrived in the cool darkness.  I was finishing my warm food, and enjoying a cold crispy drink in the moonlight.  You began speaking, no, you began preaching.  Without offering proper introductions, you spoke of your difference and advancement beyond the common desires and flaws of men.  I watched you take up hot coals, and burning wood.  In your cupped bare hands, the fire ate your flesh.  All the while, you were telling me how fire could not harm you.  Your foolish words filled the air, “Ya know, fire isn’t hot to me…  I am different, I won’t get burned.  Relax!  It is of minimal risk!”  As the smoldering ick smells of cooking meat rose in white smoke plumes the you  took a seat in an invisible chair.  Like a en flamed sculpture, you held the position of a seated person, while the flame devoured you.   Your lips flapped your tale, until they dripped down your chin.  Your ash became my ink, and my finger became my pen.  I wrote in the hot dirt, “Fire, will burn us all.”

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert