by Nick Gisburne
I feel the wild inferno, yet I freeze.
Immune, I find no fury in its heat.
Is this the supernatural disease
The shaman spoke of when he pricked my feet?
That sacrilege is seven summers gone.
The memories had faded, until now.
Today, revealed, released, I look upon
The carnage I created here, somehow.
Remembering his whispers, glazed with glee,
A speech I long regarded as a joke,
The power of the gift he gave to me
Is clearer than the moment that he spoke.
“The city of your birth will fall in flame,
And you, with cold remorse, will take the blame.”
