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

(Ouch again!)

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

And manifest.