The wounds of fire

I sit upon the roof, it is night,
the air is filled with smoke,
the mountain is black, but here and there
blood red flames lay like
many wounds, my eyes fill with tears
from the smoke, it is like fog,
the winking lights of the city
is dim in the mystical greyness,
the far off sounds seem smothered.
I look at the threatening red blood marks
on the horizon, rising on the back of the mountain,
bleeding flames and smoke into the night.
I close my eyes as I sit still on the roof
and write, the stars are unclear,
there is no moon tonight, nor darkness,
just that deep gray smoke
from the wounds of the mountain.