Striking a match
holds the promise of many things.
If I have chosen to pour gasoline
on myself on others on things,
then the promise is destruction
that will be without meaning,
for no two people
sifting the oily ash shall agree
on why I struck the flame.
Houses will be left without memory,
people will be chosen to blame,
and if anything of me is left,
I will be examined
but not believed,
for the nature of destruction
is to destroy all meaning.
Striking a match
holds the promise of many things.
If that match sparks a flame
that flares to the wick of a candle,
then the smallest part of life is enshrined,
with flickering boundaries,
its borders unprotected,
worn at by the waves of night
and changing with the slightest breeze.
In that small circle of light,
vision lacks clarity
and life has the substance of dreams,
and no two people shall agree
on what was there,
for the nature of flames that flare
is to disappear before anything can be seen.
Striking a match
holds the promise of many things.
If that match falls on dry wood piled just so,
the flame feeds fire and warmth grows,
light cannot help but be cast,
to reveal what has been
and what has yet to pass.
Yet fires by nature consume,
themselves or what is foolish enough
to fall in,
and no two people will survive
the coldness of night when the fire dies,
or the hunger of a fire
grown wild,
for the nature of being consumed
is to stay till there is nothing left within.
No one person can survive,
in darkness in cold or blaze
for each and all
are beyond their control.
In striking the match,
there is a promise of so many things,
lighting a candle
held in another's hands,
their circle of light
reveals rocks you can move,
to ring wild nature and contain,
to find fuel that will not destroy
but sustain,
for the nature of striking a match
is to see what can be done,
and where you may choose
to begin.
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2000-2010 Cassandra Tribe. All Rights Reserved. For permission to reprint any of the
material on this site please contact maria.castillo@loveandwords.com
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