Fire Poem by Shruti Goswami

There's a fire, at the end of the tunnel,
And the weed, it's burning,
The flames spread like volcanic blue,
The pebbles melt like butter.
The earth is cooling off, after an eruption,
But the wind and the sun and the space
Still on fire from the disruption,
As the waters boil.
And as the blood boils,
The soil of the mind is in a sorry state of affairs,
A slight feather touch, and its scathed.
Licking wounds and mourning over ash covered bodies,
Pyroclastic flows incessant,
As Vesuvius lie dormant,
Planning another havoc.