just an oven of words, and burning butterflies,

circling acts of angels walking, they all carry lies,

their flutter in flames, now they sound so lame, yet

i am fed all the same, by the burning signs that

heave a hiroshima purl, to ash me over

after all, i never listen, because i know the drill,

nebuchadnezzar's thrill is in the heat they haul,

and the speak they shake. i feed on that oven of

wooded words that turn men into worms and in the

charring, spew from my tongue through chrysalis-burn

take my servility with you in these deranged games,

you can call me names while i stand up straight.

look into my eye, let my steadiness be a rock if you can

try taking mine from me and you shall see the wind in

the heat fans the blaze of your weakness, oh fiery one

seasofme231116parallaxis