The flame will be short lived if it is to be engaged
No alcohol or gasoline; no match to strike its blaze.
Just the slow and steady friction of Earth’s twigs and my own
As I battle barren wilderness, my future is unknown.
I release a visible breath to fan a flicker to a flame.
As rain wrestles through my skin; and cold dances through my veins.
I want some warmth to burn me, from my insides, right on out.
Stress stifles my survival skills, and I become a lout.
A puddle now exists where my fire was once to be.
I settle down to rest and give in to apathy.
My pasty white shell trembles, my rationale expires
I have no freaking patience for the art of starting fires.
**Thank you, Lisa Kirby Art, for the point-of-view suggestion!
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