There should be a name
for death by fire.
those people that burn bound to large wooden stakes,
run wild with tyres around necks, screaming,
or inhale smoke in stories engulfed by fires
from a dragon’s heart,
do not quit like grannies in sleep or babies in beds
on calm nights and chilly days in the sun’s beauty.
their minds in flames—do they also desire mists
or floods to drench ideas of freedom knitted to roofs
of their heads
waters of life pulsing beneath their skins
sweating with no towels to wipe out the pain
of knowing that your stench will not leave
until you are a heap of ashes?