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I want think about green roaring fields.
I want to just describe
the night sky in the middle of a forest,
somewhere where the birds sing and some distant brook keeps the beat.
I want to talk about something serene and almost magical
in its total silence,
expect for the music of the crickets,
the leaves rustling in the wind,
and the feel of the grass beneath my fingers.
Instead,
my mind bursts with
flames,
bright reds that engulf those dark green fields,
hatred and heat and pain and dark clouds
that cover the moon as the world
burns below it.
There is no soft starlight to guide you home,
just the all-consuming red
and the looming sense that you won’t make it out alive.
The wind only carries the embers
out further,
until another tree catches.
The roaring is so loud,
the crickets no longer sing.
The peace in the air has burned to ash,
and the night that suffocates you
is thick and dry.
Maybe you’ll live to see tomorrow,
but after the smoke clears and the ashes settle,
charcoal will streak the ground.
There will be no forest or grass or music.
Jessica Pan