Matchsticks

It’s almost out.

Strike again. Nothing.

Begin the doubt.

Strike again. Something.

A spark. A sound. A rush of light.

It’s out.

I’m blind.

How could it be so unkind. So much to find.

Hold it right. There’s something.

A match burns and gives off sight.

Too light, there’s nothing.

Too hard, it snaps into something.

Two ends, one with fire. The others spent.

Try again. Nothing.

The box is almost empty. Only one more try, there has to be something.

Strike. Nothing.

Strike again. Flame.

Hold it, give it a name.

Preserve its warmth, eternal gain.

Finally, a place for change.

It’s bright, it’s beautiful, it’s…

The same.

Again. Use that flame to try something.

Set something else ablaze; preserve that eternal flame.

There’s another.

Who’s to blame.

Is it I or the flame?

Jealous. Callous. All the same.

There’s something else at the end of the flame.

I see it.

It goes out.

Try again.

Strike.

No doubt.

It’s the match.

The very same.

Try again.

Against the grain.

It’s the match.

The very same.

Try again.

Nothing.

Throw something.

It’s out.

Not again.

Try once more.

NOTHING!

THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING!

There’s not.

Why?

That’s the game.

The flame.

It’s the same.

The burn has burnt, it’s all the same.

There’s nothing left to harvest a spark.

There’s nothing left to try to change.

There’s more to see but in the dark.

There’s bound to be another name.

There’s bound to be nothing.

As soon as it’s something.