He played with me,

Not knowing I commanded fire.

He toyed with my hair,

Hands so gentle yet eyes full of ire,

Ogling who I have become,

Full of desire,

Seeking solace in havoc,

His whispers prove him a liar.

Thrown in the flames, I turned around,

And looked straight at his face.

The one that made me feel,

But shame and disgrace.

My fiery soul fed by his pious needs,

It had felt out of place.

Now, I have found control,

Not ere a long and tiresome chase.

It was not easy. It was not a game.

But that was my last inferior phase.

I screamed my torrid pain,

Loud, clear and plain,

Till all that had remained,

Was ash.

And the orb of orange light,

Burning dreadfully bright,

Had given me back my sight.

It burned me to embers,

But I, then, grew,

My bruises went from red to blue.

And I burned that power's master.

And as I looked around,

I realized I was no longer bound,

And the conniving man,

Who called himself my life,

Was not there.

He was just a mote of ash in the air.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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