The house was on fire.
It burned and it burned through the night. A prank, we thought, so we got out of bed and we trundled downstairs; sat in the living room, legs crossed. The flames came, and they were as real as the ego of smoke.
Fire could not kill us.
We mocked the inferno. We goaded it from the Hell spat. We belittled its inability to touch gold and flesh.
As the charring began; as the sofa and livingware melted around us, we
all at once?
a simpler life once we all were ashes.