Little flame

It's midnight in my garden,   and I burn these poems
just to give off some light—            quick orange glow,
all things revealed,          and then all things vanish
—and I sit wondering   what was real        and what
simply grew behind my eyes.
            It's midnight in my garden, and all things
appear like the wind.
So I burn these poems for their light,
and warmth,
and all things the paper could never give me.
Darkness quickly recedes,      and then comes again,
the sky and distant shadows remain unmoved
                        —this light of mine
is faint and gentle and flickering,   like every word
I've ever spoken,     or every line I've ever written.
It's midnight in my garden,
and I sit with grey fingers   and   a   few more pages.
        The click, the eruption   of   fire,
the body that burns in mere seconds,     and
the small light that pushes darkness out of my dreams
for just   a   little   while   longer.