Lighting the Fuse

My fuse was lit two years ago with some unwelcome and unpleasant news. I packed in dynamite years before and it only took one lifted veil to spark a flame against the end of my raveling edge.

It sputters and threatens explosion as it creeps itself down

down

down.

And it is somehow beautiful-

the gritty reaction of flame to fuse.

The sorrow and the intensity, the passion and the resilience.

An ashy trail follows behind, 

I know it's nearing a explosion- discovery- a finality of sorts.

I feel quite certain it won't be a dud.