The fire in earths belly is spicy. Spicy on the soul.
Like breathing, a mouthful of hot sauce,
then gasping, gasping, in a burning panic.
A force swirled around me, like a cloud of ink.
If hatred could take shape, if anger found form,
it would be the black smoke.
I asked the burning fog if it was sorry. Sorry it was evil.
Black garbage bags, shredded on barbwire, whipping in the wind.
Lava orange eyes, full of rage, with no lungs to yell,
seared its gaze into the theater of my mind.
Like the hum of an electrical transformer, it ‘whoomed’ and ‘werewa, werewa”ed,
its tale of hatred. It burned my mind, like a spicy nightmare.
A crackling hum, of violent energy. The forever evil,
was soon spat out of my mind. Yet, the choking smoke hangs,
over all of the earth, without sorrow, full of hate.
Even now as you read,
Millions of angry fingers of forged in dark smoke,
grab sweet hearts, and turn them black and spicy.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert