A conflagration started by those of the highest station,
as an ode to one who’s soul found liberation
but this would bring desolation
to the furred population.
The roses are left,
while embers of arbors burn.
All bare and bereft,
the aristocracy grieve in-turn.
Wearing the mourner’s mask,
Foliage ablaze around,
Sounds of deforestation surround
Assaulting and assailing
with the cruelest kindness.
Sweet little spectators,
carved out in neat little rows.
like swine to a trough,
regaling recently dead woes.
The woodland creatures come,
charred and enraged.
their fiery homes decayed.
A fleshy paw points to an ornate sarcophagus.
“It was you who brought this upon us,”
sputters a singed hare.
The socialites stop and stare as if now aware.
A haughty voice rings out,
“Who are you to accuse and accrue
so much venom
for the departed off to Heaven?”
A roar rose up from the periphery of animals,
the fury of a trillion candles.
and just like that they all caught fire
as if the forest was one big pyre.
Dukes and duchesses burnt to a crisp,
nothing to be heard,
no quips with even a fancy lisp.
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