The Forest Is Burning

The forest is burning,

and the fleeing parrot

cannot use the hot currents

to coast,

and is a meteorite falling from the sky,

screaming the words

he learned through mimicry.

The forest is burning,

and the iguana almost made it out

before the flames

caught him,

and his cold, reasonable blood –

it is revealed –

boils just like any other liquid.

The forest is burning,

and the peacock’s colours

are engulfed and paled

by crimson

and gold and the hottest blue,

and he is becoming

even more ethereal.

The forest is burning,

and the armadillo is trapped;

he is baking in the oven

of his nature,

his inside flesh is searing and

mutating into a charred

version of itself.

The forest is burning,

and when it is done

there will be only the swirling

grey and black flakes of soot,

drifting down,

and a solitary phoenix will hatch

like every other myth.

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More pseudo poetry. Sorry.