The Fire Won't Burn Me Now

The fire in the coat closet of my mind has become too wild to contain. Hungry for more than moth balls and faux fur, it laps at the walls and singes their white into a toasted-marshmallow shade, filling up my skull with the burning of matter, eating up instincts and disfiguring the paths my thoughts walk, charring flowers and incinerating gardens, greedily spreading itself out like a rising inferno-tide, hurling things across rooms with the full force of its desire. I have meditated in the middle of this metaphor before, swallowed alive by the insane flames of my neurons, falling in ashes back to the ground, floating, cremated and free, but here, this time, it hurts, but it never scatters me; it chokes, but refuses to take me completely, to make me disappear.