Industry

Incandescent orange glow,
atop match head, micro,
waltzing with the stick.
The flame crept up stage,
ever tapping, twirling along the wick.
The smell of oak, pine and ply, like song rose for its waltz,
If not for its lick. 
And at its peak, the heat of its dance punched through as a fiery kick.
The industry flourished, 
what an economic hit!
But as its fuel ran slim,
And the flame shrank and danced it's last lick.
Its terminal breathe drawn on a beach of ashes.