I am immortal

until some day I am not

expired from knowledge

when human breath runs out.

I am what lures moths crawling

on six legs to their doom

powder wings crushed

into smudged wallpaper.

I am coiled tight and contained

inefficiently glowing orange

chic for some or

scorching scars across skin for others.

I am hidden in pockets and bags

played with, turned on

with one searing click

and a puff of smoke to the face.

I am picked up and collected

earthy or vibrant with ‘unnatural’ hues

some caution I’m dirty - not for touching

while others preserve me.

I am part of a crowd and yet unique

I have my function and they have theirs

we repel air, rain and mud

huddling together for warmth.

I am immortal

or perhaps I am not

as humanity argues over my existence

and whether I’m to go down or up.

Saga hwæt ic hatte.*

———

*Translation from Old English: ‘Say what I am named/called’. As seen in Exeter book Riddle 18.