The Fires

The summer air captures me
in its pollen laced grasp,
as I sit in silent thought
on a hill of dried grass.

The wildfire burns in the east
its smoke filling the valley below,
hiding the buildings and cars
obscuring my daily show.

Only a barn lost this time,
not like the fire south,
it took five homes away
left lives forever changed.

All I see is dry weeds
fresh tinder for a blaze,
behind me a hundred houses
could be gone in days.

The heat dries my lips,
hands, arms, and feet,
I walk away from my perch
to my A/C retreat.

A Monster

What makes a monster a monster?
Is it it's teeth or claws?
Or maybe its wicked tail?
I have seen a scarier beast,
that looks like you and me.

How does it do such terrible things?
Without breathing fire,
or bearing its razor fangs.
This monster comes when quiet,
and leaves in agony, pain, and riot.

It tears apart families, friends, and strangers.
Escaping remorse,
and denying regret.
This monster is a pathogen,
slowly destroying it's host within.

It starts with a lie or in anger.
Evolving it grows,
eating the infected.
Until it rears it ugly head,
in a moment of weakness it's fed.