Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
That smell of wood, metal,
plastic, fabric.
Burning together,
forming a toxic cloud.
I wake to see this smoke overtaking me.
At this point, I believe I'm dreaming.
I think I want to breathe smoke.
I think I want to dump barrells of oil into the ocean.
Then I realize that I am not Jack, and must flee.
It's hard to match the fear
a housefire can bring.
Staying low to the ground,
I think about what cannot be replaced.
Music, books, clothes...
These things are come and go.
Photos, secret journals, stars,
I rush to grab them as I start to
choke on my own fear.
Down the stairs,
my living room in flames.
The white sterility of
the doilies,
the sofas,
the chairs,
stained, charred, burning away.
Glass smashes all over,
sounding like the choir of the apocalypse.
I run towards any window, any door, any way out.
This is not an exit, I think,
while diving out my kitchen window.
Hitting hard on the snowy ground,
I watch, amazed, shocked, fearful.
My childhood home,
the house in which I was raised.
Now, razed in front of my eyes.
The snow melts around me,
and I wait.
I wait for it to end.
Cold in the snow, alive,
Clutching my photos, my journals,
and a little red bag.
The things that cannot be replaced.
[ 02 January 2002: Message edited by: Furnace ]
plastic, fabric.
Burning together,
forming a toxic cloud.
I wake to see this smoke overtaking me.
At this point, I believe I'm dreaming.
I think I want to breathe smoke.
I think I want to dump barrells of oil into the ocean.
Then I realize that I am not Jack, and must flee.
It's hard to match the fear
a housefire can bring.
Staying low to the ground,
I think about what cannot be replaced.
Music, books, clothes...
These things are come and go.
Photos, secret journals, stars,
I rush to grab them as I start to
choke on my own fear.
Down the stairs,
my living room in flames.
The white sterility of
the doilies,
the sofas,
the chairs,
stained, charred, burning away.
Glass smashes all over,
sounding like the choir of the apocalypse.
I run towards any window, any door, any way out.
This is not an exit, I think,
while diving out my kitchen window.
Hitting hard on the snowy ground,
I watch, amazed, shocked, fearful.
My childhood home,
the house in which I was raised.
Now, razed in front of my eyes.
The snow melts around me,
and I wait.
I wait for it to end.
Cold in the snow, alive,
Clutching my photos, my journals,
and a little red bag.
The things that cannot be replaced.
[ 02 January 2002: Message edited by: Furnace ]
