Like sparking a flame from damp oak
A mountain of fine logs remain
Cold and quite desperate for warm air
I am
Sitting upon a desolate flame
I evoke all my oxygen and all of my fuel
Is not quite enough to spark a flame
I move heaven and earth to nourish these damp oak logs
That sit in a pyramid and do not venture off
I keep flicking the lighter until my thumb feels burned
But I still return
Because I am cold and my hands are weak
For your warmth
I ask you to please spark, my fine oak logs
You are beautiful, and I will tend to you if you so wish
That you would light
For my matches are nearly gone
And my lighter will not switch on
I yawn
Waiting for you to dry, and waiting for my burned hands to heal
And when my fine oak logs are finally parched
I place my final match in a crevasse within
Minutes my beautiful oak glows with fervency
I reach forward to warm my hands, and I am happy
In your embrace
Is all I need
I shed a tear of joy into your spirit
My beautiful oak logs
But my droplet extinguishes your blazing flare
And I can no longer retain your desired hot air
For I should have known
And stupid me
For believing that a damp oak log
Would ever catch on fire