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Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #1457766
Proof that I Hate Sestinas; for the Poetry Scratch Pad
They say it's humidity not heat
But humidity didn't burn
The dead fields withering in the sun
Waiting for careless fire
And humidity doesn't blister
Skin or make wax melt.

Polar ice will melt
They say, in the new heat
Seas rise like water in a blister
Even the winds burn
Our fragile world like fire
Like weapons of the sun.

No hotter blazes our old sun
To make the old ice melt
This is human fire
It's a greedy heat
From hearts of men that burn
To beat us till we blister.

Sealed like a toy in a plastic blister
Into a world that can't escape its sun
Are we doomed to burn
When hearts don't melt melt
In the rising heat
Of their own fire?

Why can't we fire
The idiots who blister
Our ears with meaningless heat
As if we can't see the sun
Or feel the rush of melt
Already hot enough to burn?

The planet we're cooking is starting to burn
The world-system's gun is poised to fire
A terminal process of final melt
Searing us into one giant blister
Circling endlessly round the sun
No longer feeling the heat.

But where there's heat comes fire
And our souls will burn and our words will blister
Before the sun sees our resolve melt.
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