-
crackle,
the little black tip
cackles a burning
melody. the woodflesh
swelters
in the day light
heat, giving birth
to orange demons
and the sky is coloured
ochre, the plague of flames.
crimson
light falls
like rusted tears.
it
leaves behind a cold
frigid black, smouldering
to sickly, pallid ash.
finally,
the match is dead.
- by Little Pew |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 12/07/2008 |
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![](https://graphics.gaiaonline.com/images/arena-images/ic_paper_corner_32x32.gif)
- Title: dreams of a pyromaniac
- Artist: Little Pew
-
Description:
it'll explain itself ;D
i was inspired to do this while lighting a match in my room, [psst, don't tell anyone i took it from school O:] and was surprised to notice that the wood of the matchstick seemed to 'sweat' as the flame slowly devoured it... and decided to describe it somehow. xD - Date: 12/07/2008
- Tags: dreams pyromaniac
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