Everything I've known is burning.
My style,my work, my rhymes, years of practice.
The remains sit there sloppily, like those posers at rock concerts.
Like their pretentious t-shirts that I once coveted, all blah-blah.
Its burnt, all of it.
Yes? Yes, b'bye.
My tears burn before they fall to the ground.
This house I built for you, for us, with those wild violet flowers
Growing into the window; We never did find out what they were called.
The cold fire dances so fluidly, oh, I'm so hypnotized, I cannot cry,
I cannot think, I cannot love, I cannot hold you back.
Its burnt now, all of it.
No, please? Yes, b'bye.
The tears come too late, and burn before they touch the ground.
Then the fire swims to my feet and stops, waiting.
I jump in mechanically, headfirst, and don't feel a thing.
I'm all burnt, anyway.