The Maker Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

I see Marc through the windscreen
hunched over a cone of sparks
and you wonder at the short life
of each, none survive to pass
on a morcel of kindling, yet alone
a flame. Who is to blame when extinction
is proof of communion and still spurts
the red fountain as I search
for some law that governs this flaw
these sparks jet out in one direction
and die in tumbling chaos, its what happens
inbetween that goes unseen