Suspended in the moment between dusk and morning light,

the relentless sun lies peacefully asleep under the sky.

The breaking dawn leaves shadows and takes away silhouettes,

so the faceless forms you painted will soon wake up and forget,

expressions sullen with regret.


The space between the striking match and matchbox finds the spark

The flame compels a memory of springtime meadowlarks

How innocent the fingertips of kids who play with fire;

How quick the flame will burn your funeral pyre

Don’t try to pick the roses from the briar.

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