fiery death?

When death comes for me, if I can see its coming, it will melt in my hands and transform into something extraordinary. For my hands work. They are fired by a furnace which moves my body this way and that. I fling open doors, rotate my body with the horizon, marvel at my limbs- one, two, three, four, obedient extremities - what regard for rhythm, what regard for willfulness. And so, my body fires itself. My body is a furnace, set into motion by a fire, a fire which is me, extended through fire into transmogrification. For the hands alive with my heat stoke the fire in all they touch, in all they level, in all they erect, so that this furnace may rage and grow with my courage, become an inferno, engulf sameness in firestorm. And yes. My hands will touch death. But is this extraordinary? To lift one up with fire? All the ashen deaths that cloud my vision, poison my air, suffocate my fire, forcing me to crouch down and fan - these, and these alone weigh down a fiery will with difficulty. The deaths undied, how extraordinary, and how mighty in the face of the death that melts.