The match boy
I saw the match boy once before,
As he kindled the stick so forth,
With slow deft movements,
Of priestly fingers.
The swish resound,
The flame redound.
The hazy ascending vapors rest
On heart of white rose and tenderness.
Ringed with misty vision,
He stands, a match in hand.
The face in mute,
A musing hue.
Glowing match lulls his aching soul,
Waning light stills melancholy throes,
Which, cast down by reality,
Finds an outlet at last.
Streams of guilt,
Receding trails.
My eyes enjoy looking in his face,
As he strove to keep the past at bay.
The faint snuff of a match’s flame,
Tarrying awhile, and fade.
The past is past,
And cannot last.