Fire Sale

A junkyard sale of desires
A fuel lit by unkempt fires
You look into the storm in my eyes
I seek nothing from your side
Except to crumple and compress
Like a stacked wastage
And look the sinking sun in the eye
From the wastelands of yesteryears
I take this fragility as a favourable disposition
You may,
If you so wish
Take my emptiness, as your prize
I know naught, it's 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘺𝘢 here.