the smell of a freshly extinguished match

fills the air, smoke rising up to signal

the surrender, unburned pieces of passion

fragments escaping the explosion

orphans seeking shelter in the streets

the matchstick blackened and hunched over

has failed to pass on its flame

what was once too hot to touch

now crumbles in my fingertips

an ant squished

by the powerful legs of the grasshopper

food on a cold winter's day

for a starving soul

ill prepared for the icy chill