This fire is more than able
to put me in my place,
sheltered by the angel
dancing in the flames.
This closure isn’t stable;
this answer isn’t straight,
as fires of burning hazel
are spitting in my face.

And I would play the savior
if you asked me to;
I’d become a martyr
just like lovers do;
I won’t beg compassion
that I can’t deserve;
I won’t feign contrition
just to join the herd.

These masquerading fables
betray our better selves,
tempting bitter angels
to leave us in our hell.
These times of lies and labels
keep begging me to stray,
but fires of burning hazel
are standing in the way.