Burning Shores & School Art Walk Poems

From the sandy shores of my seclusive piece of hell, I watched my old home burn. There was no sadness to be felt by me as the flames' hunger was sated and they died into softly glowing embers. The mud and silt that I remember being soft and squishy underfoot from many years running along the marsh grounds had dried up into hard cracked dirt, resembling the skin of my long deceased grandmother. The previously bright, luscious green grasses that had stood tall and proud, dancing lithely when the wind wound through them were now crispy, and wouldn't dance for a long time. The bushes that I'd plucked wild berries from every summer where the heat from the sun felt like it would melt your skin off were now hollow carcasses and pieces of ash that floated in the light breeze. Unlike its surroundings, the little sapphire blue inlet sparkled brightly, reflecting every ember and spark so it looked like it was burning as well. The pale periwinkle of the sky is blanketed by a thick layer of gray and brown smoke, hiding the hideousness of below from the ever-watchful eyes in the sky.
Hours pass before the sky clears of the smoke to reveal the damage. Embers are still lightly glowing, but with every passing minute more die off. It's almost sad to see so much death and loss of the place I once knew and loved. But what had happened here just a few days ago, I did not want to remember. I did not want to see it. I did not want to even think about it. But it was always in the back of mind, replaying like a broken record. There was a still painful scratch along the back of my head, as I'd grown frustrated with my mind and thought that trying to cut into my head would erase it from my memory.
The setting sun brought a fiery, glowing light to be cast upon the burning shore just across the river from me, and I knew I didn't regret starting that fire.

Smoke rising in the night
Beware the inferno
Dying light and dreams

Lune Poem
Collage
Eagle, stars, flag
These symbols represent so much
Fierce, pride, brave

Metaphor/Simile Poem
Native Marksman
Sitting Bullseye
Aiming high at his flying prey
Eyes sharp like a hawk's
Flightless predator