The Evidence

A matchbook lies
Between me and an ashtray.   

In the ashtray piled up

The butts of smoked cigarettes,

that spun the imagery in my poetry

I scribbled my diary. 

Even a single matchstick

Burnt the soul of green forests,

The remnants like the scorched grasses,

Slouched by the period of time,

Stuffed in the skins of the animals,

By the taxidermist to craft

The lifelike mockups as immovable

Fortunes of the forests.

Some tattered pages of my diary

Of my bygone days,

I tear off ‘cause of something

Never destined to reword.

The endeavor of the entire day,

The conception of my poetry,

To liven up the voyage of my life

From the origin to its edge.

Tearing out the last match,

I strike a flame just to compose,

Some other form of poetry,

Other than the free verse,

To get wrapped,

Me and myself,

Into the rhymes of a roaring river

That rejuvenates the green into the forests.  
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