Dance cynically, fellow stranger,
who he's called from nothing but
the words he has inscribed down within his wrist
in red ink and shallow incantation.

Dance over that blank wall from which
these empty eyes and body drained of life
stare.

Arm over the window sill, the blade smashes against the cement,
two stories down.

Deadly kindler of the fuming chimney
that puffs only pastel gray smoke and licks of crimson,
bandage the eggshell palette with
red before you drift it into hell where
it shall shrivel in black.

Where the life that could have flourished
in incandescent light now creeps on its
paws and flickering tongue, spotting onyx
soot imprints behind it, smearing the footsteps with its
scaly tail; sparks of glass and salt burn the roof of its mouth.

It wails in pain and the chains binding its knees together tighten.

Kindler of Hell's fires, drag the beast to the chimney
and with your tar filled lungs,
send it up out of that wretched place
into the judgement of the sun's rays.

Shot with the fierce heat, the soot of the creature
bursts unto the body below.
Pale and cold is covered in lukewarm ash, and a colored eye
flashes open and wanders; catching the sight of similar grotesque monsters of dense smog and melting mouths filled with snake tongues.

He whose eye searches
yelps as the ash of his self incrimination crawls
from his skin and forms beside its
brothers who stare down at him with dull sockets
which should hold eyes.

Beings of your blood are we.
Feast on your soul we shall with pleasure.
Clamping like skeletal lamprey to the hearts of those who love you.
Feed us with that revenue of your blood; allow the
kindler to afflict your troubles definitively with
each exhale of clambering flame. Let us end
your suffering. Say the hellions in hisses.

Words spoken into the minds of those who seek death beyond
the pleas of those who live.

Those are the dictions of the stumbled dances of the
self condemned. Explanations of those who play the song of
the kindler become nothing but one thing,

shadows.