When a fire starts to burn

Running.

The flames were running.

Running through the forest, the once green Amazon's pride.

Running. Rippling. Roaring. Ruling.

Condemned to run red riot through all.

Pouring from the trees, open veins, undiluted fury, flowing water, burnt at the seams, damaged beyond repair.

Trees bow to its supremacy, incapable of being salvaged, charred to the desperate bone, souls in agony, aflame.

Bank accounts were running, figures escaping, dollars dwindling; all insignificant to the life, the greatest of all gifts, running like a stagnant stream, life's blood now pooled across the dirt.

An expensive project, some complain, condemned, dissolve to dust. Others though are desperate now, to set the forest free. Our lives, they cry, are endangered now, for these, our lungs, are blackened, black as the darkest sin. But as the fiery banner unfurls, a lance across the dawn, no chivalrous act, no selfless donation, can truly save our trees.

We run to save our rainforest, but soon are out of breath, for at the expense of the lungs of the earth, we have drawn that final gasp.

Running, we are running now, running out of air.

All because the fire is running, victorious, there.

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