What We Lost in the Fire
The morning after
the small log cabin
had collapsed
on itself.
The inferno at its core
still gassing-off
acrid.
Charred walls
look lost, half-standing,
tumbled logs
blistered black.
And shattered glass
where it fell.
Stagnant pools
singed with ash,
the rutted tracks of trucks.
Hardening into mud,
where volunteers
manned their hoses.
What incites the mind
of pyromaniacs?
The dance of flame
in their eyes?
The rush of agency
in failed lives?
A primal force
gone wild?
Do they return to the scene of the crime
still mesmerized
by light?
What we lost in the fire
was trust.
The traitor, among us
who lurks in the dark,
may burn us all.
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