A match

Sometimes the torch turns on the village, and itself.

Sometimes the fire believes it is only a spark,

or the light leading the way.

Sometimes the roaring waters believe they are birthing the truth

…instead of drowning the masses.

Sometimes you paint the stone black,

douse it in gasoline and strike a match.

You burn the forest again and again and again.

And water the smoking haystack.

Wrath Wrath3 Wrath6 Wrath7 Wrath8

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