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Thursday, August 30, 2012

Match Stick

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A scratch and a sharp crack,
and a nascent glow is born.
From wood to wick,
the burning flame is flown.

It burns alive from head to toe,
just to see its faint light grow.

Withered and ashy,
it lands on the floor,
dead, but for the head,
which craves for life more.

The end is marked then,
with rising white smoke,
announcing, "this time, not a joke".

Sucking on the molten wax,
the fresh fire shines,
fulfilling the match's destiny,
leaving no reason for whines.