The pyre

They stand at the pile
all wooden and dead
the smile their dirty smiles
of lies and hate
for they have him inside
trapped alive but dead.
They set it on fire
and it burns bright
but not half as the gleam
that now lights up their eyes.
He dosent scream
nor moan he does...
its just a silent tear
that he feeds the pyre.
Is he hurt enough
to burn and die?
Is he dead enough
to live another lie?
He was born of the fire
that they try to make his end.
He has lived with the fire
that they try to make his end.
All he has to do
is just rise up again
to command the flames
back to his feet again...
but he dosent move,
he just lies there still...
as the pyre burns him down
in blazing timbers of lies,
burning toungues that scar his flesh
scars that burn to ashes dead.
He lies there dying, almost dead.
It was never the flames nor the cinders
that even scorched his head
what burns him true,
is not that pyre of hate,
what chars him alive
is that ONE last lie.

-Pushkaraj Shirke