Dear Teacher

You the stone, your words the flint.
You spark igniting what was cold and dead,
we children of kindling and men of logs.
Our annuals read stewed in your wisdom,
a meal we make for fellows travelling the wilderness.
Whose spark a shining star now combusts-
slowly eating at the darkness above,
evaporating the fog we swim;
leaving for us only the tall shadows within.
With your spark we torch the buildings inside,
let the glass splinter against our flames.
The concrete cracks.
Let the smoke choke those voices we hear.
Dear teacher,
your brief flash of light has engulfed me,
i am no more man but humane.
It courses through me, petrol and ,
where i reach our blackened fingers crawl against the surface.
Hungrily they bore into the answer,
but you never questioned why -
i never do either.

The gap after 'Petrol and' , is intentional because im so hipster that i imagine people seeing me say butane and so i purposely leave it out before they can groan. <a joke that makes me laugh; not serious.