Takes a packet of matches out of their pocket,
Carefully freeing one spindly match from its cage,
And strikes it against the side of its floral prison.
A flame sparks.
A weak, starving flame.
It devours the stilt keeping it alive,
Desperately seeking to satisfy its insatiable appetite.
Growing and growing,
Becoming more powerful,
It has eaten its beholder
And nothing is left except black, burnt dust.
Time passes, until
Someone somewhere lights up another match,
And they too, are burned.
My profuse apologies for taking so long to post anything on this page. This last month has been a whirlwind, with university exams, doctors worrying about my mental health, my mum also becoming extremely worried, and the fact that I am currently co-directing two plays, and producing another two. I hate not having the time to write and to dedicate myself to poetry and this blog, and I hate not giving my readers something in return for their follows and the work they produce. So again, I’m sorry. You should hopefully be hearing from me much more frequently in the future. Much love.