I’m a foot that never feels the floor, I clip and clop from door to door. My shoe is mine since I was born, on horse or cow, I’m proudly worn.

A candle does it, and so do overworked people-though only one involves a literal flame being extinguished. The first four say what a fire does, the last three are what you do to leave.

Binary sentinels stand in rows, filtering light where silence grows. Circuit paths beneath their feet, sheltering life in code discreet.

Robin Hood lived in one by the name of Sherwood

On the skin of a peach, the bum of a bee, the static on screens of old CRTs. Add Y to the end, and what name would grace ya? The first of an ursine with full alopecia.