Red Wind

The fires moves down, down

from the mountains, down

through the center of my soul,

streaking the inner darkness

with golden yellows, glowing

if not illuminating, burning

stone and soil, sucking oxygen

as the red wind consumes

my paper skin

sparks and flares, thousands

of tiny lightning strikes move,

speed, feed on the combustible

carrion of my mind,

borne on the red wind,

born of the red wind

my throat is dry parchment

my forehead a fever of fire

raining, uncontainable

This poem is submitted for the Whatever the Weather prompt at dVerse Poets. To see more submitted poems, please visit the site.