Sometimes, when no one is around

I will strike a match and wait,

Each match a little prayer—

Into its temporal splinter,

An hour glass compressed—

A flash of light to see

What these hands can do,

A rush of heat to feel

What these hands could be—

And then, a choice—

Burning bushes only survive in myth,

Once the flame is summoned

The rest is up to me

And me alone.

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