Promethean Fever

All the World billows from looming smoke stacks, while we inhale each others breath and ash in an attempt to sustain ourselves with it. Our eyes, defiantly open, are black with pitch and transfixed on the Blaze where we burn. 

The sweet sear is like writhing lust on our flesh. We gyrate and grind against it with fury and precision and fat smiles drawn tight in the dark. 

The trees sing with voices made of tinder and their chorus is the rhythm to which we dance on what is left of our cinder-soft earth. The pyre beckons and we answer with scrambling feet, manic wisdom and matches.