My Dying Flame

Alone as always, sitting by my dying flame. I throw another twig and watch as the embers consume it's shape. Another crackle and I know it's gone, lost forever in the blaze. They say the fire has no eyes, but I feel its stare, judging me as it illuminates my features. I gaze back and cast my disapproval of it. There is so little to gain from a diseased flame, no warmth, no light, no comfort, only worry. Fear that it will rise out of control or burn away to ashes. On my left a can of gasoline on my right a pale of water. The future of the flame is mine to determine, which hand will I choose? Perhaps for now I am content to wait, looking for the perfect branch to add. One to cure my sickly fire, and turn it into the beautiful, strong inferno I seek. One I can rely on, and won't betray me in the night. But the gifts of the woods are few and far between. I may never find the piece I seek and so, I'll settle for my dying flame, just enough to keep me alive.