There was a fire that burned all around us, and people were afraid.

They feared for their homes and the roads that they had paved.

We became diaspora and fled as refugees,

in the hopes of returning to anything that the flames did not seize.

People huddled together but the prevailing emotion was unease,

Routines were disrupted and entire lives were put on freeze.

Screens flashed text and images that were grim.

They served to add to the people’s worries and make hope very dim.

Meanwhile the inferno was raging, being fed by a wind that was dry.

The hell-zephyr birthed the fire in new places and whipped its flames high into the sky.

At night, all one could see was an eerie, otherworldly orange glow,

in the hills of the valley because the fire had choked off all the lights below.

By day, one would be shrouded in blinding smoke and totally unaware,

that the fire was  creeping dangerously close to all for which they care.

But just in time, there came a day that the flames lost their fuel.

The wind died down and the forces of preservation had won the duel.

There was a great collective sigh as the people returned to their lives.

Primal stresses were lifted and we went back to sharpening our knives.

Upon return, we found our houses were still standing.

And standing next to them was all that we forgot was troublesome and demanding.

Perspective was lost and we resumed existence as domesticated creatures;

losing all propulsion and reinstating that which is ill as teachers.

Being grateful for the wrong things is crippling as far as I am concerned.

The fire did take my home, there was a wind that could not be turned.

As I sit in my home and reflect on what I’ve learned,

the only thing I can come up with is that this place should have burned.

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