Fingers of mine held the thin stick, Tipped with anticipating phosphorus The match was molded to burn a spark, setting motion a fire that yerns With friction, the green powder tingles I flick and scratch the wood against the black grated rings It crosses the cardboard, etching moss-like skin on the box Instantly, a candles tip spawns from the ethereal maw My fingers sear under the top, scooting away from the hot mess that kindled Holding my breath and my I hand, The fire escapes to the floor of twigs, and The brightness enamors me; My faces glows a ghostly orange Within the flames I stand, allowing light to crawl to the walls in a glowing mange