I am on fire.
My flesh is flame,
insubstantial, light,
heat, idea, incandescent
in the night of the mind.
I twist anger into the logic
that strikes the shadows
crowding close and hot
like a furnace penumbra,
armed with their analogies
whose crude similarities
stiffen with salience,
solidify into system,
give basis to accusation.
I do not recognise
their hologram indictment,
their ash excuse for a world
of wrath and fallacy.
I escape between the bars
of the cage they close on me.
I am on fire. My flesh is flame.
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