Arsonist

To mention a spark in poetry is so cliche-
but we had a fire that could burn for days...
like gasoline fumes exploding with the spark of a match-
a heat so intense, too hot to get attached.
You're nothing but an arsonist who sees fire as his art-
you burned into my body, my soul, my heart.
A roaring fire was begun, you started the flame-
it was all too real to me- but to you, just a game...
you love starting the fire, yet refuse to put it out-
letting me burn into ashes, a blazing forest in a drought.
You leave no sign of foul play- you're a master at your art...
no traces you were ever here other than my scorched heart.
I'll no longer play with fire, I'm so tired of getting burned.
My soul has been left in ashes- my lesson has been learned.