A mark on him

There was a mark on him. A mark, probably meant to warn me off the damage that was about to be inflicted. Some say that in the bigger scheme of things, in the strange ways the universe conspires to let damage attract damage. Or conversely to let hellfire attract inflammable bundles of woodstock. Only the match has to be lighted. And all that remains is smoke and burn. 
There is a perverse sense of intensity in the toxicity of such a fireball. When all hell breaks loose, and all one can do is burn in heat. Slowly and then with putridity. In the aftermath of doused remains, it is hard to guess who drew whom in. The toxicity, the damage, the intensity, the passion, the overdrawn strings of resistance. I can only state with certainty that passion doesn't warrant grovelling. Neither does it beg for attention. So when the fire has consumed the remnants of affection, intensity picks up it's head and walks out of the pyre. Damaged, yet pieced together. Singed and yet whole. Patterns of the cosmos repeats it's cycle till the time that somehow the voids get clogged back up. Bundled up and pushed behind the curtains of pretense. Until the next instance that the hellfire attracts hellfire.