When It All Goes Under

When it all goes under, there's not much to tell. After all, there's not a soul alive who's ever seen hell. There's just flame and flare, and then it's as though it was never here.

I watch a rose petal burn, encased in wax. I watch the candle gutter out, and though I light match after match, I can't get the fire back. Yeah, when it all goes under, there's not much to tell.

I used to think that I might melt, if only someone applied enough pressure and heat. But my triple-point seems to be unusually high, and I'm sick of telling myself that particular lie. It may be hot enough once it's all gone under, but there's not a soul alive who's ever seen hell.

I roll my eyes and watch the flames dance, aware as I do that I may be losing my chance. They curl and flare around a rose petal in wax, promising that the morning shall find only ash. The fire is hot, but not hot enough, and it'll gutter out and go under too soon - snuffed. Yeah, I could go on, but there's not much to tell. (Besides, I don't believe in hell.)