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Wick
A sharp flare,
a sputter,
and it is alight.
The darkness
is banished,
driven back by light.
Once begun
the bright flame,
shining, dancing, quick,
eats into,
devours,
the poor, helpless wick.
Flurry
A snowstorm,
they drift down,
forming drifts of grey.
The flames rage,
consume trees,
pastures, barns, and hay.
While man meets
inferno,
ignoring the clash
it blankets
the city,
this blizzard of ash.
Starvation
The flames lick
the tinder,
engulf the whole pile.
On the wood
it gorges,
its appetite vile.
With fuel gone,
its meal black,
the flame weakly sighs.
With nothing
to feed on
it withers and dies.
--Ryan Smith
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