(I Feel) Incendiary
Like he is a
Pile of golden straw,
Dry blowing chaff,
Scratchy kindling
Heaped up and looking
At me through dry, red-rimmed eyes
Asking, "Is that a match in your hand?"
When I have absolutely no idea
Where the matches even are
I lost the matches long ago
Along with so many other things
Lost
Or misplaced in the fog of confusion
That makes up my days
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