Fire's Reflection

Called many a thing;

Ablaze, reaction, wildfire...

I know nothing of jaunts and the things I have burned,

Neither of the success I have earned.

..........

Sometimes miniature, the tip of a match,

Near-massaged by fingers to a cigarette.

And then I fall, slowly into a rush,

My embers ever-brightly as a blush.

..........

From splinters perhaps I first came;

The man primitive had dreams,

Rubbed the wood which became cinder,

The darkness of times my light made shiver.

..........

But where is it I come from, so cold of gleam?

Is there a crevice where I spark to flight?

All metamorphosed of rage, insentient beast—

This my woe, my victims my treat.