The wind isn't blowing. He doesn't sigh, doesn't look up at the nodescript sky that isn't any particular color at all, doesn't wipe away the sweat that crawls its way down his temple. He doesn't care.

What he does do is flick open his lighter and watch the flame for a moment. Butane sloshes sleepily as his hand shakes violently. He drops it, the flame extinguishing a moment later- but a moment is all it takes for the gasoline soaked wood to catch, burning blue for a moment. The doorframe goes up first, varnish bubbling and popping, the smell of smoke and cedar filling his nostrils. He stands on the threshold, an old slab of marble, and watches the house burn around him. The heat sears his eyelashes, and the scars on his forearms stand out in shiny white contrast to the rest of his skin.

It might have been an hour later, maybe a whole day, maybe a week, when he finally turned away from the ashes that had once been a fire that had once been gasoline soaked wood that had once been a house. The wind isn't blowing, but the ashes scatter themselves.

He doesn't look backwards when he walks away; the scars on his arms still stand out in stark relief on his burnt skin. The sky is faintly blue above the gray ash plains.
****

Those're the images to go with the confusing poem, more or less. Not too much color, really. Just skin and fire; the scenery is flat, stony, and bare. Just a house in the middle of nowhere. And yeah, he prolly shoulda been burnt worser, but I ain't to sure *what* he is...