Thick ash litters the ground,

crumbs in a deliciously horrific pie,

of indecency,

of ignorance,

of frustration, 

of limbs tired from walking,

of eyes weary from watching,

and lips bruised from begging.

We are a pastry, 

perched on a shelf,

billowing ashy heat.

It is burning inside-

we are suffocating.

We cannot breathe.

Yet this is our fate:

inevitably blanketed-

trapped,

under a veil

of thick,

white,

relentlessly stubborn,

sugary dough.

We are fated to stare

at white clouds,

at the sky,

and our past,

that is now bloody 

with fire,

and the truth

that our past

is still present,

and the clouds above are still

white,

stubborn,

and relentless.

Eventually,

it rains. 

In the depths of red, 

clawing through a sea of ash,

our delicacy billows

a red, 

hot, 

fiery,

present.

The world is burning,

and we lit the match.