The world is on fire—
Not in poems or metaphors,
but in streets that glow like furnaces.
Cities cough smoke,
children learn silence as a second language,
and the night sky becomes
a bruise no one tends to.
Ash falls like confetti,
celebrating an apocalypse.
We change the channel,
skip the video,
mute the sound—
because grief is loud,
and dinner is getting cold.
The world is on fire,
and so are we—
Not with grief, but with distraction,
with gossip and insecurity,
with the blue glow of screens.
Not even guilt catches spark anymore—
it’s too wet with convenience.
Bombs fall—
but playlists keep playing.
Bodies fall—
but so do prices.
The fire consumes a portion of the world,
yet the room stays cool
as air conditioning fills the comfort.
The world burns twice:
once in the soil,
once in the soul.
One flame burns flesh,
the other eats feeling.
And when the smoke finally reaches us,
we will swear we never saw the fire coming.