The sky is on fire,
and the world holds its breath.
It bleeds out in streaks of crimson,
fingers of flame
licking the edges of clouds,
leaving behind ash that the wind cannot carry away.

It doesn’t scream.
No, it only burns
in silence,
a slow, tender rage,
as if the heavens themselves
have grown tired
of holding the weight of the stars.

We watch from below,
a chorus of small prayers
wrapped in our own fragile skin.
Some of us still believe in rain,
in the mercy of the dark,
but tonight,
the fire is too bright,
too wild,
too beautiful
to look away from.

The sky is on fire,
and I wonder if this is how
the end begins—
a blaze too beautiful to escape,
too hot to be touched.

We hold onto the night,
our hands trembling with the heat,
knowing,
somehow,
that this fire does not care
if we burn with it.

The sky is on fire,
and all we can do
is watch
as it consumes
the last of the light.