The Silent Ambition of the Unkindled Match

Sitting in its cardboard nest,
among equal woods, a miniature forest,
lies the matchstick, gaunt and solitary,
with the red head, promise of fervor.
It waits for the meeting, the rough caress
that wakes it from its unaware sleep,
and releases the fire, that living soul,
a brief flash, a flicker of light.

It knows neither ash, nor acrid smoke,
only of life, of an ignited destiny,
of gifted warmth, of a sacred instant,
an ancient rite, never yet understood.
But time flows on, and it, intact and shy,
keeps safe its secret flicker,
a soul awaiting, a living desire,
a small heart that has never had a start.