"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume..."
/ Shakespeare: "Romeo and Juliet", Act II Scene 6, Friar Lawrence to Romeo.
He rages through time
and through space,
through it all.
He races along,
God forbid that he fall.
The hotter he burns,
the brighter the blaze,
though the lights of his soul
tend to dim in the haze.
Fire and powder:
they kiss and consume.
A wound – deep cut –
a pretty red bloom.
(Oh, that one will scar,
my dear, my dear;
that one, you'll remember
for years and years.)
Because that's what they do –
fires burn things,
like houses and homes,
flesh, bones, and wings.
The phoenix, the phoenix
might rise from the ashes,
but the village, the people:
gone, memories, just ask him.
Pages in books,
turned to nothing by heat,
so flammable, so fragile –
their fate, like honey:
so loathsomely sweet.
"... The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite."
/ {see above}
