Fire

Oh, how the wicked all dance to the same tunes around the pyre.

Not in unison, no, they would hate that. They pride themselves on being different. On being the exception.
But the rhythm betrays them. It always does.
The same steps, dressed in different excuses. The same hunger, renamed into something softer. Something justifiable.

Diferent masks, different voices, different views, yet all the same in the end.

We all dance to it, we all think we are the exception, the one outside, that the fire will not burn us because we can see it, feel the lick of the flames, but we forget the coals that stay beneath our feet, the hot ash that drifts around us.

We forget those that push us closer to the heat, our own missteps on the choreography, our own exaustion from the constant movement.

And still, we keep dancing and we call it choice.

We call it survival, we call it fitting in, we call it overcoming.

We think we are better than the ones that get burned, yet the truth is simpler than that.

The choice is written for us, we never had another option.

You either get burned.

Or become the fire.