Dystopian portions of jollity

I like to light things up,
cigarettes,
matches,
myself sometimes.

But, some things
refuse to be lighten up,
refuse to end in flames,
refuse to be taken down into microscopic size.

I would like to light you up too,
to take you down into the glory
of a flame,
to watch you burn from passion,
when the only hole you know
is dry.
When the only light you had is down,
and when the halls that carry
your heart,
finally flood into the sea
of your liqud.

And finally,
I’d like to light up poems too,
so that I can see them dancing
in the air, just like I danced in their rhymes that do not rhyme.
So that I can see words tear apart,
just like your heart did
from mine.
So that I can see the misbalanced
reaction float away,
like never existed,
so that I can feel poetry become
ashes and atoms,
so that I and poetry become one.

Your liquid would evaporate
from the heat too,
it would turn to the same atoms
as us,
and then,
ony then,
we’d be one

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