I'm not sure what to put for the title.

In a barren place,

I met a boy clutching a flame.

“Why do you hold it?” I asked.

“It burns me,” he said,

and smiled.

The wind howled,

and the flame bent low,

yet he would not release it.

“It is mine,” he whispered,

though his hands blackened.

And I saw

that he feared the dark

more than the fire.