On the Lack of Horses in the Barn and the Arsonous Instinct of the Hopeless Many

My face screwed up and contorted
Like a screaming infant,
Eyes twitching madly from left to right to left again,
I stand in the chipped red wooden barn
On a frenzied and forlorn search for the horses
But they are long gone,
Running wild through the marshes
Without any destination
Until they collapse from exhaustion and slowly perish.
One drop of water shall not sustain me;
One crumb of bread shall not allow me
To continue torching the houses of my forefathers
In a final effort to fill the world with the flame of passion.
I once held the scepter of ardor strong in my hand,
Marched the fervorous march down dusty roads,
But now I lie nude and emaciated
In a vast lonely field.
Burn, you damned aimless, impotent world,
Burn, and take me with you,
Please. please, burn up into ash.