I open my eyes to promptly scold myself
Throughout the day, once and again
I should put down this fucking torch
There is no argument it needs to be doused
I moved continents to be rid of it
It burns me still as it has for years
Not with intention, just accidental third degrees
Moulted skin gives charred nerve endings
Rookie mistake because the record shows
I only put torches down to pick another up
And it’s pitch black and not even a firefly
Blesses my rural vicinity and I’m convinced
I would not follow even if one did
Petrified of anything resembling light
Except this gruesome thing in my hand
Because the common denominator has always been
The fuel my deceased mind secretes
How did this become so?
You were supposed to be moonlight