Cold constellations burn like iron brands,
Poised high over the drowsy wooden frame.
Delicate paper, nestled in weak hands
Is eaten by the match’s hungry flame.
The machinations of the big unknown
Are kindling strewn about an old man’s bed.
His unsteady fingers wobble alone
As heavy eyes weigh down his heavy head.
His dreams ignite with searing summer suns
That clutch tightly to his red tender skin.
They cast pluming shadows along his lungs
And char his brittle bones from toes to chin.
Awash in a ravenous, raging glow,
Baptized by blaze into the land below.