My mama always warned me to stay away from fire.
Soot on your pants is what makes one a liar
As a little kid, I never quite knew what to think.
And as a kid, people can change in a blink.
Now I know she never meant fire after all,
But people who carry matches are the fall.
I headed her advice and stayed away from the furnace
But in my friendships, I was far too earnest.
I forsake the actual flame like she warned
But my path to the furnace is what I ignored.
With each step towards you I felt my skin grow warmer,
What I did not see were the flames blazing around the corner.
You are a pyro, though you won’t believe it.
You carry matches that are always lit.
The sound of the match against a box is your melody
And the crackle of your fires is the symphony.
With a simple smile and a toss of your hair,
You send your flame high in the air.
It lands with a thud on an unfortunate passer-by,
Who wonders aloud why they brought fire from the sky.
Your sparks are subtle, I’ll give you that
But too many times I have caught you in the act.
With soot on your pants, I remember mama’s lesson.
And watch as you burn what is less than perfection.
You have a nasty habit for burning what paths you cross,
Then blame the construction for being at loss.
The pyro is the one who starts the fire.
Not an accident, an innocent, or someone for hire.
So as I remember mama’s words, I have one thing left to say.
I pray the bridges you’ve blazed always light your way.