Friday, 21 February 2014

Not one properly teardrop-shaped














Perhaps the matches were damp, steadfast flames
didn’t burn in teardrop shapes, the ones I lit
sputtered, went out, and I never could claim
perfect mastery over fire, or matchsticks.


There was no moving warmth, except the burn –
fierce in my pot,  but that was more like acid,
salt sharp, shrivelling – it took years to learn
that only certain fires warm relationships.


The ones I struck fluttered the wrong colour
saffron and not crimson, blue and not brick
if they caught at all, burnt lower and duller
the spectrum just not mainstream attractive.


But they’re also fine. This salt being a misfit.
Flames that burn short. Alone. And damp matchsticks.








4 comments:

  1. its a terrible situation when you are swallowed by such intense pain that even your eyes deceive you by being reluctant to show it. unsure what prompted you to write this, but these words took be back some time and it some how brought a smile on my face - a faded one though. thanks!

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    1. All smiles are good in my vocab. Pleased to hear it raised a smile. Thanks for reading.

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  2. That's the inherent knowledge,in sprout-If thefflames were uniform,the tidings just would not percolate-Its the waxing and waning,that adds to the brilliance,whether,whether they (flames) die down or burst forth in interrupted-Acceptance is acknowledgement,of the pristine nature of evolution-

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    1. Hmm, that's really deep. Not sure if I've got the whole meaning correctly. But I do agree that acceptance is key. Thanks for your comment.

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