Life = Death - Volume 4 - Poems on Life , Death by Nikhil Parekh - HTML preview

5. SMALL BOX OF MATCHSTICKS

Don’t just consider them to be lifeless pieces of wood; soggy and extruding black beads of stingy coal,

Don’t just consider them to be a minuscule strand of orphaned stick; lying obsolete on the streets awaiting ardently to be kicked,

Don’t just consider them to be a neglected trash lying dilapidated in the dustbin; rotting in morbidly insipid gloom,

Don’t just consider them to be a soiled wire coalesced in an obnoxious heap with the squalid soil; being trampled infinite times in a single day,

Don’t just consider them to be an incoherent needle; a chunk of worthless shit strewn rampantly amongst the proliferating wilderness,

Don’t just consider them to be a dreary speck; emanating an incredulously ghoulish odor in the placid atmosphere,

Don’t just consider them to be brutally squelched left overs of furniture; wailing miserably under the uncannily shimmering beams of moon,

Don’t just consider them to be worthless beads of profusely broken thorns; burying infinite feet beneath the earth at the slightest of shoving,

Don’t just consider them to be globs of savagely pulverized saw dust; having absolutely no complete entity of their own,

Don’t just consider them to be coating of a dolorously decaying bone; disdainfully polluting the entire area which they infinitesimally inhabited,

Don’t just consider them to be diminutive ants with a black  ghastly head; staring indefatigably at each other in nervous exhilaration,

Don’t just consider them to be an insipid follicle of hair; shattering into boundless fragments of dirt the instant one inadvertently caressed them,

Don’t just consider them to be a lifeless skin of vegetable; waiting in overwhelming anticipation to be dumped into the farthest corner of the city gutter,

Don’t just consider them to be shivering crusts of stale bread; blowing away to fathomless kilometers of distance with the tiniest draught of exuberant wind,

Don’t just consider them to be a minuscule thread smaller than the key hole; possessing a life of less than even a whole minute,

Don’t just consider them to be a favorite meal for the woodpecker; devouring their entire countenance in a singly gulp of its mighty beak,

Don’t just consider them to be a horrendously distorted wire with no electricity; hiding themselves way beneath the mud as the sun came out sweltering from the blazing sky,

And don’t just consider them to be without a meaning or value in this colossal world; selling at the most threadbare rates in the contemporary market,

For all they needed was just a tiny bellow of air; an incomprehensibly frigid rubbing against abraded stone; and then my small box of matchsticks, had the prowess to char blissful territories into veritable graveyards; laugh to their hearts content; as the so called planet which had once ridiculed them; was now nothing but a ball

of diabolically rising flames.