The Matchstick
I lit you in the pulsing black
Struck you by your crown
The blood, the fat, the breath react
Chew your lifeline down
Into your body creeps the night
Without the stars or moon
Like a socket sans an eye
The canebrake shadows loom
They limp to push to the stalks aside
They smell me in the field
They hang around my wreath of light
Waiting for the yield
But will it rain before the dawn
And drown the sugar cane?
Or will the wind decide to yawn
Before I learn to shout again?
Autor(es): Todor Oluic
