it flickers to life with a mere spark,
burning so bright—
almost as if it’d set anything nearby into an uncontrollable fire.

the rage at the beginning continues
until the tip burns out.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see sparks dancing in the surrounding cloud of flame:
starting blue, then white,
then a bright orange and raging red.

often missed,
they say the smoldering heat lies in the blue zone.

and the craziest part?
the stick burns—turns black—
but before that,
it glows a bright red, like iron in a furnace,
even if just for a second.

if you touch the matchstick within those seconds—barely two or three—
it burns.
the ghost of the once very alive flame kisses your skin.
but not in a way that harms or leaves a mark—
in a way that the sizzle lingers just beneath the surface,
for minutes.
longer, if the zone is too sensitive.

the flame then catches the rest of the stick.
the darkness spreads so smoothly,
swallowing it whole—
almost like that one void we all try to escape from.

often, only the part you held—
the part you blew out,
afraid it’d reach your fingertips—
remains untouched.
it couldn't live the life meant for itself,
yet more than half was spent unsaid.

the black takes over.
devoid of red,
of flicker,
of magic.

but when it burns—
it’s the prettiest thing ever.

the flame.
the cloud of fire.
albeit small,
bright enough to smolder steel into black
(trust me, i’ve tried).
hot enough to burn skin
(based on personal experimentation).

flickering enough to cause destruction—
and addicting enough to make you want to commit arson.

and then it dies.

a burnt corpse.
once alive for seconds,
fulfilled its own eternity,
the life written for it since the very manufacturing—
and then it lies among the other half-broken, crushed soot,
to live its death.

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

The snow falls thick outside,
its quiet weight presses against the windows.
Let it snow, let it snow
but the cold feels heavier this year.

The fire crackles softly,
but it can’t quite chase the shadows away.
The tree stands tall,
but its lights seem dim,
flickering faintly like memories
too distant to reach.

Silent night
but the silence has a weight to it,
a hum that fills the room,
reminding you that stillness doesn’t mean peace.

The room is warm,
yet it feels like something is missing,
a hollow that the carol of the bells can’t fill.
We sit together,
but the distance between us stretches
like the snow gathering outside,
quiet and inevitable.

I've been burned many times in my life
From a stove, a fire,
A lighter or a match,
A candle or its wax

Even just from food—  
A drink taken too soon  
Scalded my tongue—  
Now nothing tastes the same.

My feelings, too,
Laid bare like a muscle,
Pulled from within,
Blazed,
With a flame,
That burned what couldn't last.

And the only way to teach  
That fire is hot  
Is to let someone  
Touch it,
Because will  
Can’t be stopped.

,

"I told you it was hot,
But you had to see for yourself,
Now you have that ugly mark"

You reached for the comfort—  
But it shattered like delph.
Now cold water
Is all that listens.

But no water calms the ache
Rising from the burn,
Already blooming-
On your hand.

Because wonder outweighed warning—  
You had to know the flame.

What does it take to keep a good man burning
What does it take to keep a good heart yearning
I want to burn like a winter’s fire deep into the night
I want to be the flame that brings you morning light
I can burn for you, you set my soul on fire
I can burn for you, you are my one desire
A winter’s fire deep into the night
A burning flame until morning light
Burn me with you fire deep into the night
Burn me with your flame until I see morning light

This tense desire
A built in fire
Ready to be released

The wind carries embers,
whispers charred secrets,
and the tree bends—not from age,
but from a scream that’s always been there.
Do you hear it now?
A hollow cry in the brittle leaves,
a crack in the marrow of the bark,
the language of wildfire—
cruel, ancient, endless.

Once,
her roots were drunk on fog,
her branches heavy with sunlit mornings.
Now,
the air tastes of smoke,
ash settles in her veins,
her shadow flickers,
a ghost against an orange sky.

They say the fire speaks—
greedy, ravenous.
But the tree,
the Cali tree,
screams instead.
Screams for her sisters who turned to smoke,
screams for the nests that fell as sparks,
screams for the soil, now burned and bare,
too tired to cradle new life.

Once,
flames were a dance:
brief, beautiful,
a way to start anew.
But now they are monsters,
growing hungrier,
louder,
every year.

The scream spirals into the valleys,
up the hills,
over the rooftops.
It cracks open the silence of dry creek beds,
splits the night sky,
and still, we pretend we do not hear.

She leans toward the wind and wails:
“Do you know why?”

The answer is in the sparks of powerlines,
the parched rivers,
the forests gone brittle with thirst.
It is in the blackened skeletons of redwoods,
the sunsets stained with sorrow.

One day,
her scream will fade—
too quiet to hear,
too heavy to carry.
But for now,
she stands in the ash,
her roots smoldering,
her branches trembling.

And I listen.

I will not lie on my deathbed
haunted by the ghosts
of dreams I left unborn,
of words swallowed
like ash and regret.

The voice in my head
a relentless whisper,
an ember refusing to fade:
Go forward,
Go further,
Or burn alive in the silence.

They call my sky too wide,
my dreams reckless,
as if their fears could cage
my endless horizon.

I burn hot like fire
a fury ignited
by the smallness
of their projections,
the cowardice
of chosen comforts,
a daily surrender
to empty routines.

I rage against shrinking,
against the numbness
of a life untested.
Let them choose ease;
I will chase obsession,
run wild into uncertainty,
and carry my dreams
like flames
into the dark.