Private Lives

voices bounce in the air abound

through membrane of paper-thin walls

fuel-soaked words will set these walls aflame

before the night decides, it falls

the words float in air that surrounds

reminder that arson's to blame

flakes of fire ash

all that is left is endless shame

knowing this in my wooden chair

the echoes persist like a rash

bright red and orange like the burning sun

with plume of smoke worn as a sash

through nostrils filter burning hair

and process of things half-begun

afterimage dance

that looks quick and almost like fun

the words of end will set you free

but beg for one minuscule chance

to be given a look of knowing

one thoughtful, second, heartfelt glance

they speak, they scream, they call to me

with fervor and anger growing

the air shakes with it

I have a habit of knowing

when the words come tumbling down

from fuel can in the chair that sits

dripping on to the singed, carpet floor

rolling over with seizure fits

fluttering white of a nightgown

broken hinges of a room's door

the winged bird calls

with embers burning at the core