The world burns outside,
so in this microcosm of cool we reside.
But at times it grows warm,
the heat begins at the center,
and works its way out through the fingertips.
little flames catching the seats,
the cloth curling and distorting,
A halo of red light,
around an angel and a demon,
they struggle,
out into the bitter cold,
from time to time,
they wonder,
who's the demon and who's the angel,
but the fire doesn't wonder,
it just burns everything,
until all is gone.
If only it weren't so warm,
that fire burning on.
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