By Devsa Thakur
Living amid the fire, I gaze upon the ocean.
It's bizarre that the sea can get cold—
but not as much as the fire, bitter and bold.
How come it's bitterly cold?
It does, when the flames of hatred one's world behold.
Although the fire burns,
it is still warm, isn't that right?
The sun over the ocean offers me warmth,
but not as extensively as the fire might.
The ocean might grant me demise—
by drowning,
or with its enigmatic beings.
isn’t burning alive
the deadliest way to die?