dry brush waits for a spark, to be transformed into flames bright and true that would burn all night through. to be reborn is all that it wants, but as days stretch, the thought starts to haunt that no spark will fly. were you left here for dust, rust, and wind, not knowing just what kind of trouble you're in? while something still stirs and yearns, you can still feel the burn. you've lost how days brought you here, to stand stranded again. speaking in tongues, with no breath in your lungs, and calling out. but the names all get caught, just as you once knew but now forgot what you've been looking for. was it to or from someone that all this time you've been on the run? or once again, has your memory been wrong, and you've been alone all