Some Never Return

And suddenly, there is nothing left.
The flames have done their work,
working its tendrils into every nook,
relentless in its pursuit of destruction,
indifferent to it all,
hungry only for destruction,
reveling in its power to tear down,
and yet utterly helpless, utterly unable,
utterly unaware that wrath
has no answer,
no next,
no life.

And when it is done.
When all is rubble and dust.
When all is consumed,
then the flames too disappear,
confused as a child
who has no toys left to break.

About this poem

A “love gone bad” poem. Or a bad love poem. A political poem. Maybe something else. Your call.

Tom