MOTHER MAY I?

Books of matches formed by lips,
combustible parental whispers thought unheard
by ears with pliable hearing,
each vowel of suppressed suggestion
striking a flame into a heart’s darkness,
scorching it and charring the walls
where the rules of life are written.

Conscience barbecued by the heat,
vision fueled by hate’s lighter fluid,
world seen as combustible kindling,
a place to burn until it is as charcoaled
as the feelings inside.

Behind the eyes the furnace is stoked,
waiting for a firestorm opportunity
and all around life ignores the vapors
rising in hints from smoldering words.

How much could little hands devise
that can strike an inferno before the day?
Dribbled equations in rationalization,
safely sequestering the harbinger sparks.

Burning permit used without being issued,
something must explode tonight
because without that light within,
the blackness inside can’t be ended.

While minds raced to their token communions
fireplace is made among their huts,
suddenly what was neglected
rages out of control.

But the devastation becomes a maze,
where fingers point at ruination,
looking for scapegoats
as long as it doesn’t point to self.