Watching a city burn from a sky rise
is poetry.
Who said it would be beautiful
When all that stains these pages is agony.
But there's beauty in madness they say,
Until its directed towards them.
What wine would fit this moment,
Hoping I don't sully my carpet.
As I watch the home my demons reside
Return to ashes.
Their streets of Gold glitter no more,
All I see is hard plastic.
This poetry doesn't last though,
For my sky rise belongs to the city that burns.
Until it reaches my floor,
The 5th symphony echos with my soliloquy.

"Will I be reborn
Through the flames,
Or will the Abyss
Be my final resting place"

© fruitfulodyssey