Naked, I am a Cliché in Flames

Naked before the mirror,
I am a cliché in flames,
fire in the belly,
fire in the heart,
hot-headed.

Every phrase a reprint,
those flames mean more
than their source,
another cliché
burning
in effigy
on Guy Fawkes Day.

Guido,
gunpowder plot,
statement,
rhetoric without cliché.

I pity the straw men
torched in your name,
but who doesn't enjoy a good fire?

So the cliché lives on,
everlastingly incinerating,
as we pass marshmallows
on pointy sticks.