Antique Match Girl

Little antique match girl,
huddled in a corner starving
knowing the certain fate and yet,
in the shivering cold the new
becomes the old. An icy purview
is all that she knew, as the last
of the lighted tiny torch
burned her fingers and stung
her mind. Oh it's not unkind.

She came for this as a poor me dove,
did it for sorrows and did it for love
of a kind that the world never knew,
that lighted flame snuffed the fame
adieu. She knew that dreams that count,
don't come true. But still, she pursued.

Now some would say that it's perverse to
abide with something that longs to expose
another side of a coin, but the time isn't
right until the feeling is home. Alone.

The hero's journey is hard to bear, when in
jester's doubt you have not a care...
you sit like a lumpkin to some truths
laid bare... it's a rabbit joke to the march
of a hare. Down a whole of hard to swallow.

You came to lead but not to follow.

In a cold and wintry hollow the little match girl,
still... after all these years, will not and can not
follow.

... and i as a fragile hummel am apt to crack
if handled by the bargain hunters. For I am free
and not for sale.

An antique sentiment still dear to my heart. As the antique
match girl's world falls apart.