Days seemed to become dim and mundane.
No tinder for kindle to what once was a flame.
The flint is wet, and my hands I cannot feel.
As the days are getting darker, my nerves are hard to steel.
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It's been raining for days, and the whole pile is soaked,
Fuel that once flamed with ion now knows only smoke.
Still, I try to regain the spark that was once there,
Striking with steel until my hands bleed from the wear.
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An ember springs forth, excitingly giving me hope,
Until it smothers once more, leaving me at the end of my rope.
So I grind my axe against the log, and I gather more of the shavings,
Hoping that this one lights, for the warmth from it might save me.
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