#matchsticks
Trucks in a revolving town
Try me, care and voice is a weary tiger
Sheep and bear a truer time, a yawn
Is a watery eye, with a moment to prove I am a rider
Space for speed
Sparing the protected eye, a bird
Is nowhere found, with a realm to its only dream
Might night become a nation, with a risk's word?
All
And nothing more
With a richness to my blood, I come to thee for a wall...
Of comfort and joy, that has seen wishes yet turn into sour...
Praise be a clashing color
The duty of war, is such a fancy image, to add
A relationship with the blue man, has a certain valor
That took me for a fool, when the share of fruition, is a fashion
Strength and doles, the voice of pokes
In the name of birds shadow, where one more kiss
Will cost me my soul, in integrity and blessings jokes
Which seems to be, my singing for your dancing ... makes an angels' wish...
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 8:50 AM UTC
What if life was a match
struck in darkness
that brief, burning moment
as the flame grows
baptising all it touches
with its blessed light.
Even as the snuffer looms,
deaths cap leaves behind
a smouldering ember,
and as it all cools down
I can somehow still feel
the warmth.
If time was kinder
I'd keep the flame burning,
but since it will not yield,
I'll love and remember
the glow long after
the flame has died.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 8:02 PM UTC
A little child was selling
burnt matchsticks in winter
They came across a man
as the child ventured the street
"Mister, mister,
please buy my matches,
I'm hungry, and I require
blankets to warm me."
The man gave
no regard of the child,
he walked away.
The wind blew harder,
and it was colder
than before
The child came across
a farmer carrying a bag of hay,
and they tugged the farmer's shirt
"Mister, mister,
please buy my matches,"
He simply looked
at the child, then left.
.
.
.
.
.
After a few attempts, the child lost hope.
It was cold after all, so the child thought of lighting
the last matchstick that was not burnt like the others.
And, it lit but barely warmed the child
After a while, the flame dimmed.
Yet, the child can only observe
whilst longing for warmth
The petite child snickers,
as a wintercearig feeling settled within
"A matchstick can't burn that long, silly me."
Jun 11, 2021
Jun 11, 2021 at 8:46 AM UTC
Here she lies
On the cold, hard ground
Crying to the wind
Trying to make a sound
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
A bundle of rags is what she is
Completely threadbare
The windows are aglow
With incandescent light
The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
There's no one outside
To neither hear nor care
She lights a match for herself
In defeat
The match flickers and dies
Like the light from her eyes
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
Her whispers stir
The chilly winter air
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
I will ignite
my hands.
With a
matchstick
on my right,
and my heart
on my left,
Watch me
wonder
which will
burn out faster.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
It starts with the shock.
The disbelief, the sudden pain of what you've lost.
Lives, like matches, will burn out.
But the time and place that may occur, that's what worries me most.
Every word, every action could be the last. Nothing lasts.
Some things, the things that make you choke and cry and wish them false, are too hard to ask.
Each dew on the grass is a fatal item, every bird that sings
and every human on the earth.
No one deserves to go.
No one deserves to go.
It started with shock,
And it ended with a truth.
I, along with everyone else, am vital.
I am true.
And though his matchstick has now burnt out,
He was too.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC