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