Running through the old house,
it crumbles and echoes,
I run into a dark room:
The fire has died out,
but the coals are still glowing.
I hear the voices behind me,
Following me,
Running, chasing.
I see no other way out.
I put one foot onto the hot coals.
It burns, it stings.
I put another foot on.
My hands climb from brick to brick.
The skin wearing away:
being torn away.
Blood trickles down.
The smoke chokes me,
I cough and my eyes water,
but still I climb.
Higher and higher and higher
until the air becomes too thin to breathe
And the bricks in the chimney trap my shoulders
I stay there, knowing I will be safe from the people below,
This was his story,
Now here are his bones.