Pyromancy…a word suddenly uttered from my stuttering mind. Why?

Well, we practice the dance of flames when we pursue this life of highs, lows and centerfolds of magazines, some with nude metal - the newest sedan at a seductively lower price, ah! Is this where my spark will travel to next? A destiny of material chases may await without moderation. 

But hey, who wants their desires challenged when escapism is a cheap firestarter? I don't. 

A reader of this poem may reply:

“Don't vent to me about your higher meanings when utilities, rent and more are breathing clouds of smog into my face, when this medication keeps me starved of a cure so another wallet can gorge on funds, when the cruelty around us eclipses the morbid nature of any fiction. What does your postur...

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