He's Angry

Red hot, ash and cinders sit lingering under singeing feet and winded extinguishing pain,
cold and indifferent the flames lick again and again, with the tenacity of termites in the wood which now is blazing instead of the quiet saving despaired in the violent haven of solitude, derived from the walls invincible fortitude, cold and broken, hot and flaming, the light of licensed fury fires up, scorching instead of slipping the slapping icicles a shatter, broken fragments of fire dance like lions on hot sand, circling prey in playful predation, and finally he beckons.

The flames obey, following the hand of hell's heat, a hurricane of blazing blue in spirals around his hemispheric hand, raised to the hurrying heat above, the rains beat down, like drums in the hands of the African savages, warriors crying, each raindrop plummets down just to be burned up in fire, sweet succulent fire power, inspired glowering heat waves, like shimmering mirrors in the sky which the fireflies dance upon, leaving their glowing wake in the rippling surface of cold hard glass only to spread to the raging torrent of fluidly fanned flames, hands outstretched, he calls them, lets them enter his dark mind

And the flames turn black.