Arson

I am watching my city burn.

People set fire to their houses and make the

night sky glow like a thousand

pyres dedicated to all the living

who are dead on the inside.

And I am blaming with a torch

in my hand, waiting for the blaze

to consume the walls of what I love.

Because we are blind to our destruction,

and like Icarus next to the sun, we feel

a fleeting glow before our descent.

So we accuse others of our fall

to justify our failure, when we

are all just arsonists burning in our own flames.

And still we are not warm.