Flames

A non-specific poem.

I stood on the hill
above the town where I was born
I looked down, at the quaint little houses
as they burned, crackling to crisps in the morning air.
The main street’s shops, normally ablaze with lights,
were now ablaze with orange flame.
The inn in the center, always filled with laughter
crumbled into ashes and dust, weathered sign falling dully into the road.
The town hall, old and majestic, stuffed with history
collapsed, roof beams tumbling inward, pulverizing
the entire past of the village.
The church, whose bells had rung for years upon years
calling the pious and impious together at one altar
went up in flames, high white steeple tilting awkwardly to one side
and falling backwards upon the hard wooden pews
the cast brass bells ringing, clanging out a final cacophony of destruction.
My home, which my father had built with his own hands
where I spent my life, playing outside and ruining my clothes
which my mother stitched up, muttering through her pince-néz
exploded, showering the street with flaming shrapnel.
I shed a tear, breathed in the acrid smoke
and tossed away the match.