Poem #2

The frigid, bloodstained firmament descends upon the sun's fervent journey, as you ascend  within the confines of your hollowed ribs. 

Unease permeates your being as you pilfer at will, utilizing pots and pans, finding solace in slumber upon the couch, liberated from anguish. 

Trailing the putrid odor of ceaseless inferno, despite your relentless struggles, your kin forsake you. 

You perpetually stumble, incapable of achieving anything commendable. Never shall you witness the bloom of the seed you sowed, not from your rib but from your skull, a display of ignorant arrogance. 

Your shoes remain eternally besmirched with the ashes of the homes you have incinerated.