Name It!

Name it!
The madman who burns from the inside out
discovers he cannot, WILL NOT!, go about
dousing the flame with water refreshing
or else find the burn evermore unrelenting.

Woe to he, the man who burns inside,
for soon his heart will soon decide
to wretch itself free from flames everlasting
and scorch his lungs and throat and end in his passing.

From the outside, it is a pitiable sight.
It begins with the glow, the spark in the night,
enveloping around him the shadowless light.

His flesh becomes ruddy, red, aflush,
smoking and steaming, engendered thrush,
burning and yearning, an intentional rush.

His heartbeat quickens.
His stomach sickens.
The behemoth awakens.

This burn, this fire, this wily flame,
it consumes.

A flame left to its own devices, left to burn for days,
will seek to sustain itself, sustain itself always.
It will seek out the tinder, the tenderest spots
to burn and to burn and to burn itself hot.

Eventually, you see, if the flame is not fed,
the man will burn to ashes, embers cold as lead,
He will become a man wholly undone, completed,
his fire spent, his flame excised, his conflagration defeated.

He will be but an ash,
once no more a fiery flash.


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