There is a Fire that Burns in Us All

A thin millimetre of steam
Pours out of the top log
From some protected inner sanctum
And wisps upward
Born by the hex of the orange hot wood coal
That looks to be pre-molten rock
From the inner cliff of some raging volcano.

I am waiting for the orange-hot bridge
To burn through and collapse
Under the weight of the steamy log above
Which burns by the same flame
So that the bridge feeds the force
That lightens its load even as it saps its own strength.

The embers below glow on and off in waves
As though speaking with tongues and chatting with each other.
The bursting crash of the breakdown comes suddenly,
Setting all aflame with a new intensity
As though destruction naturally inspires, excites and enrages,
Even without mind or blood.

Why do they lick along just those lines
Here and there, the flames
Now blue, now yellow, now white, now orange?
As they break apart each log
They portray the structure of its being in chambers
As though magnifying the cellular core beneath
While through the solid wood burns
Bright embers of red light
Alight from within or showing through
A fragile slice, appearing solid,
Already mostly burned
So that what seems substance
Is only facade.

I am a god just to see this whole, bright almost improbable scene;
The majesty and mystery of substance departing into air
By the lion of light and heat; The Destroyer of Worlds.
Over the 451 line leads to the exit door of earth;
Exchanging privilege for freedom.
In this brilliant dance,
This great burn shadow of the sun,
Herself shadow of the beginning bang,
Where creation and destruction are one,
God gives us this window of His own eyes.