The Unexpected Kindling

Between wool and fiber, a hidden friction,
a silent motion that weaves the quietude.
There is no thunder, no rumble or cost,
only an accumulation, slow and unseen.
Every caress, a fleeting passage,
a charge that grows without name,
before the finger, in rapid journey,
brushes metal, breaking the veil.

Then, the exact moment, a flash of light,
a blue lightning bolt in the interrupted dark.
A minuscule lightning that conducts
its vibrant essence, its broken cry.
The tip, wounded, releases the intense,
a brief shudder that dies into nothingness,
and the air rearranges itself, less dense,
like a secret that the echo nullifies.