A tear
Scratching
Across a rough surface...
From a square
Package
Commonly lit
With pick-up sticks...
One is chosen
To shape the air
Bluish while
In smoky flare...
Crawling down
A ticklish spine
Until burning
At the fingertips...
Too hot to handle
The match is dropped
Shaken off
As the fire extinguishes...
COPY WRITE©2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wow...I love it. so simple...made a smile come to my lips...blessings