Bright orange,
they reach for the sky in a hurry.
Turning wood white,
discoloring the air.
They have no purpose,
no care.
They only with to engulf
sticks that had once lived.
The place
where others had
spent their lives.

They speak,
as they consume.
Hissing and crackling
in the pained, wooden faces
of the dying.

They warm my face
and legs
and hands.
Making my skin
tingle,
and my eyes tired.

The discolored air spirals up,
far into the white sky above,
disappearing....
I breathe,
and steel some for myself.
The scent,
reminding...
I exhale,
giving it back to the,
somehow,
still starving beast,
and the sky it claims
it's own.

They shoot the remains of their food
into the air.
It falls around me,
and gets taken by the wind.

They claim
everything.

I call them
Flames.

I call it


Fire.