What Lives and What Remains

You never say goodbye or even lock the door.
Then flames rise to lick the ceiling  
Throwing shadows on the floor  
Heat builds and suffocates.  
It peels away at every surface  
and nothing can escape  
the prison of destruction's purpose.  
The keys are on the table and broken glass is on the wall.
It's reflection is of doorways standing open in the hall.  
Some lead to rooms of quiet rest
to feelings warm and comfort filled.  
Others empty,  dark and vast  
hold tears, like blood that's often spilled.  
As embers dance throughout the air seeking tinder to ignite,  
a fog blanket of smoke
covers all with endless night.  
In these spaces,  the hidden places
and areas where you reside,  
there is no refuge from the rage
nor a location safe to hide.  
In truth, as it appears,  
the desolation that enslaves  
is a fire of illusions, but nothing more than what you've made.  
Burning passions are the fuel  
feeding the tyrant flames,  
that when built up like stacks of kindling provide everlasting nightmare games    
Within this shroud, memories  
are without an invitation  
revealing tendencies of both redemption and damnation.  
Throughout the fractured image  
the broken things and dreams  
become a metaphor
of realities not often seen.  
The keys, rooms, the hall and doors  
are all openings into the horrors  
which are without locks
put in their place to shut away
shame and disgrace.  
Although dispair, smoke and mirrors create distractions distorting the view  
of actual existence and fantasies
that could come true,  
a remnant wisp of light remains  
as testament of love  
and hope's fight to survive.  
It's power to extinguish the inferno  
only determined by it's will to thrive.