So many carry matches
Big and small cartridges
Some plain and corporate
Some with smoky playboys
Pockets full of bright little nothings
All idea and no space
Until they're struck
And a lonely flame pierces the non-existence
It's so elusive, this flame
Fighting it's space
Against the grinding blackness.
And you have to cup your hand,
and risk getting burned (Ouch!),
and turn the match upside down
only so you can sacrifice you finger
to let it burn a little brighter.
But so many matches lost!
Boxes of them, unusable
and damp, from tears of incompetence.
But with these matches, can't you
light your way up on a vertical mountain
until you reach the top,
the rest falling in your footsteps,
break though the suffocating storm clouds,
and get a glimpse
of the stark, brilliant white sun.
Or risk falling into the black centuries
Where all is eaten after it's passing
Munching on little human worlds,
that could have meant something,
if only a match was struck.
I look into this ravenous hole
Where people fall one after another.
All potential, and fresh match-heads,
that wouldn't ignite.
I look where most end up,
without a word or thought about them,
in non-existence, that comes swiftly after death.
I look and I am terrified.
Because to the world
You don't really exist,
(You can't be seen after all)
Until you strike a match