by Nikita Balachandran, Final BPTh

 
We could have been a raging fire,
All we had to do was nurse that tiny flame,
And maybe bear the heat on our raw skin once the mittens caught fire,
For a second, maybe much more according to our repentant claim.
 
If ego could be felt, it sure has to be cold as ice,
But what did more damage than those icy jets was our aversion to light.
Maybe the dark is comforting because nobody’s exposed and vulnerable,
Because what person has quantified your weaknesses and still provided the wood for you to ignite.
 
So the next time you see a spark
As fascinating and potentially consuming as venus’s reign,
And we try to protect it with our bare hands devoid of any protective charms,
Remember our hearts form the hearth here; and there’s only so much room for the ashes from burnt out flames.