Young Writers Society

Fire

I was lying in my bed,
on that fateful night,
that dreadful night,
reading a book,
and all was alright,
when I heard that horrendous cry.

That cry,
so filled with pain,
with agony,
I knew something wasn’t right.
I knew something bad,
had appeared.

Then I felt it,
this warmth,
this unnatural heat,
and I knew I had to take
my life in my own hands,
or I would be gone.

I ran and ran,
down those halls,
I ran,
but the fire toyed noisily,
running its spindly fingers,
its flames through my hair,
I almost turned,
but I kept running.

The fire cooed in its praising tones,
telling me,
“Life is better where I am,
it is better to be alone,
to be done.
You are better dead,
better gone.”
And I almost stopped,
but I kept running.

The fire impersonates,
everything you know,
my friends,
my family,
even my dog.
I stopped,
I turned,
and what I saw was terrible,
worse than death,
worse than fear,
and when I turned,
this is what I saw…

In a circle of fire,
danced things,
my favorite things,
my old stuffed animals,
my desk,
my notebooks,
and they danced,
to the rhythm of death.
They chanted a rhyme,
calling to me,
“Come with us,
come with us,
we know you love us,
don’t leave us,
don’t,
go…”
And I almost ran,
I almost went,
standing on the brink of death,
when a hand laid itself on my shoulder,
and I turned to see,
a fire fighter,
and he spoke,
“Don’t go.
They are things,
and only memories.
Memories.”

When I escaped from that house,
that burning inferno,
of life and death,
of black and white,
and red,
I knew that those things,
my favorite things,
were truly,
only memories…




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~Cloverinthefield