The Burning Hand

The Burning Hand

The moon

arises in the West And shadows

fall about the

 dark

I float among

                                            the things around me

With no purpose

                                                                                                         or direction Far

         to my left a skyscraper is closing in on itself

rapidly Like a balloon

                                                being sucked through a straw

                                                                                 My ears can see what

                my eyes can feel But

I daren’t

open

my mouth

for fear of what I might                              discover                  What I may

find

among                                                      

the

scattered

                                                            debris                                                    flung

 every                                                                                                                               which

way                   throughout                  this

 red and purple blue wasteland

A Fire burns atop a

   man atop a tower

atop a

      river

atop a mountain surrounded by

nothing

                                                                                                            but expanse of colour

    The tower

            is tall and made

     of sturdy rock Each stone

placed my Masonic hands meticulously

      but it’s

                                                                          cracks

           form

 winding

                                                                                    mazes

       spiralling

       around

 from base to

roof where the

burning hand waves blackened and decaying

It waved and me and told me I was not alone