My house fire has been
tossing hot embers for
at least a decade. Even the
neighbors soak their homes
in water. I'm smoke choked
and burnt out. Just a tired
old witch from Salem town.
I bought a red gallon of gasoline
for later today. Invitations are sent
to watch me burn in a blazing pyre
at twenty minutes to five. Sweep my
furious ashes under the ugly rug
in the hall. In a spell I will have gone
from to tobacco to charcoal.
Every detail has been checked.
Extra gasoline so others can
have a turn. I'd hate to
leave anyone out. Meticulous
planning for a quick burn. Already
my skin looks ashen and grey.
A prelude of things to come.
Nice party favors, tied up in a
flammable free white linen, with
a crisp orange bow. I glance at
the clock, it's almost the
witching hour.
A sad life is nothing more
than a bad cliche. Here
for an instant until it burns
away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem