huddled beneath the *****, dark alleys of the past
there's a girl
rubbing her hands together
for a semblance of warmth

the cold bites deep
through bare clothing
chilling her to the bone

as the frost flurries through
and bright Christmas trees
set her eyes alight

she shakily pulls a small
matchbook
from her pocket

with a breath,
she mutters a prayer
and strikes the match
to watch it burn
one last time

the flame wavers
but continues to burn
'till there is no fuel left

just as the light dies
she, too, dies

and the ghosts come
to take her hand
to a safer place
where it's Christmas yearlong
and warm embraces await

for the little match girl has left
for somewhere, something beyond our reach