Flashes of White and Orange

White is the fire
that covers my soul,
and I burn
every time
I touch a page.
My tears are ash,
black against the white,
and the whispers of my mind
are tiny embers
still burning.
The fire will never
become smoke,
but I'm suddenly cold.
My skin is blue,
and my tears are pain.
To find the source
tearing at my heart,
I have no choice
but to find the news,
see what tragedy, horror
has struck this world again,
that has left me cold.
And orange is the fire
that rages through the land of dreams,
the home of many,
licking flames against the lives
affected by its rage.
The arms of its blaze
has ripped away the world,
splitting it apart,
and all I could hear
would be the cries of sorrow,
cries for help.
But I can't bear again
to hear such cries.
I would remain cold.
My fire would be gone.
I would be alone,
listening to the world outside.
I know the world's pain
as well as I know my own.
I know those cries
for I once cried them.
And as I am surrounded
by white flame,
I see this world rocked
by orange tendrils.
What water could I cry
to turn fire into smoke?
What prayers can be said
when no rain is in sight?
How do I reach the world
through the TV screen?
Do I ignore all this
and return
to the writing,
or do I write
to reach you?