Original

It's like the world's on fire.

But it doesn't glow the color of the sun.

Just trickles and trumps,

like servants to a sire.

And all you want to do is run.

It's thick there for a moment

when you're flitting on the end

..gusts and gasps...

turbulent; unkempt.

Then drops, it seems...

...obediently, flat.

Up rises the truth,

Reaching, stretching out the vat.

I've been trying to write more, now.

For me, the words have to match in color and texture or else I can't put them together. Which is awful, often.