Burning

Orange waves curl up
against a black canvas.
Clouds of soot
create a blanket between
the heavans and soil.

Maybe it will protect us
from God’s orange wrath.

The amber swells feed
on the dryed grass as
they move.
The horses are screaming
as they did in war.

The soot blanket may
have protected us from God.
But not from ourselves.

The ever expanding sea
Consumed the paddock.
A lone calf broke free,
the orange trailing
kisses down its back.
As it ran.
And screamed.
And ran.

By: Leilah Bhyat