The Flesh of Fatigue

I’ve observed my stone-cold exterior and shiver inwardly as a cordial gesture. I, too, see the open eyes that stare at sights unseen, the mouth held tightly shut as if in fear of uttering a breath. I recognize the face of a distant man. Yet, hear the voices roar inside my head and know I am alive, I am a person. I have passions so deep they would make you choke and gasp for breath.

I do not speak because I know the effect my words carry. I am a pacifist yet I swallow fire and feel it sear my soul and wish to level cities and squander dynasties. The inferno grows within, and it came to be that my home was made of timber and I sleep on a bed of ash and I am cold.

The flame is home and it is there you will find me when you wish to hear me speak.


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