SHRIVELING MATCHSTICKS

Matchbox sitting on the shelf,

shaking inside from the bitter cold

still refuse to strike that match,

can't waste them, ever.

 

Icing chill bites deeper,

day's lament for worthless weather,

dying in pneumonia's rasp, visions of reaper's sickle

painting an eerie shadow on my bedroom wall.

 

One more rib stabbing cough,

phlegm comes to the lips, soul begs for warmth,

screaming to light a single match,

can't waste them, ever.

 

Shivers quake the body in horrifying tides

like a foreboding tremor of death knell warning.

 

Last of cough medicine exhausted,

lungs hurting deeply, the infection fluid inside

slowly suffocating the capacity to breathe.

Mind pleads to use one precious matchstick,

can't waste them,

ever.

 

Then the nightmare collapses,

waking to a new day, healthy of body, dead in spirit,

trust's matchbook lying on the soul's shelf,

never opened to risk a flame,

to warm or light one's life,

can't waste them, ever.