Men made of paper have come calling for me
Each with his name scrawled in ink on his side
They have come for the light and the heat but
There was a quick burst and a shattering and so
I am no longer the bulb, but the flame.
And they reach and they reach and they slide
in their blindness across surfaces thought to be
familiar and safe, smooth etchings on plaster
But I have been steadily consuming and am no
longer content to sit and burn with so little filament,
to remain always untouching.
“Be aware” I whisper in half-hearted warning,
“the end of your world comes in electric flames”.
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