The house was never perfect,
Not since the day it was built.
Once, the walls stood untouched,
Once, the fire was small.
But year after year, the flames grew—
Until escape became only a dream.
The fire could scorch skin,
Leave wounds unseen yet felt.
So people stayed away,
Choosing safety over suffering.
But inside,
Four siblings remained.
They lived within the heat,
Sweating, suffocating—
Yet one did not feel it.
Three bore the pain,
Their bodies burned,
Their souls weighed down.
They tried to run, they tried to fight,
But the flames swallowed their screams.
It was never a battle,
Only surrender disguised as choice.
For the fourth held the key.
The one who did not suffer,
The one who thrived within the fire.
Comfortable, untouched.
The fire did not burn them,
Did not touch their skin.
For they did not fear it—
They created it.
And so the fire grew,
And the three remained—trapped, powerless.
If only the walls would crumble,
If only the flames turned to ash.
Then perhaps they could breathe.
But the fire lives—
And so must they.
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Author:
Yumi Gab (
Offline) - Published: April 23rd, 2025 05:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments3
Welcome to MPS 🙏🏻🕊
enjoyed this read, thank you
This has such a middle eastern flavor to it and the metaphor in this story lies hidden just as if trapped within the flames unable to escape. Elusive as a flame itself it can not be grasped by mortal hand without being burned. Yet in its understanding one remains unburned but trapped. A fave
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