The child climbs the trees,
dauntless until she falls,
like a bird with deformed wings.

She touches the kettle
despite the steam coming out,
because she wants to cook like her mom,
but scalds herself raw.

She lights the matches
even though she has been told
the curtains catch fire easily.
She wants to light a fire in the fireplace,
just like her daddy does.

And now watching the blackened snow flakes
drift slowly down on the still city of ash,
I’m alone in reality.

The smoke is long gone,
The building’s metal carcasses
Hold nothing up.
I’m the child who set the city on fire
and only now do I realise

I was just a kid
playing a grown ups’ game.