When the match stick was a pimp
The flame came at a cost,
was forbidden from giving warmth or light for free.
The poor shivered in the street,
dreamt of glowing yellows and oranges,
the day they might afford to rent heat.
Those who could pay the match stick's price
slept with contentment, safe from the encroaching ice.
The fire longed for the ability to bless
the whole of the Earth,
liberated from its taskmaster,
free to incarnate at will.