A matchbox that rests on a desk
Is missing its old better half:
A canteen with a deep shade of red
In a safe house reeking of gas.
In the darkness so eerie and stark,
All alone in a quaint isolation,
The night called for fires to start.
The rebels made haste to the station.
To the ground with a snickering sound,
The gasoline uttered a trickle.
The matches prepared to get loud,
For revolution is nothing when fickle.
A voice through a speaker with poise
Prepared the young vagrants for war.
“This is the cause you want, boys,
Today we will even the score.”
The matches were lit with a flick,
Burning softly and staying in check.
The gasoline made the air thick,
Setting the scene for a wreck.
The smoke rose and garnered a choke.
The ashes then flooded the sky.
The beast, once sleeping, awoke.
Calm left without a goodbye.
Happy as friends with their men,
The rebels did turn to take flight,
But the fire had caught up with them
And set it’s owns setters alight.
The stench of the burning of flesh
Was filling the once rosy air.
But the war was novel and fresh,
There was no time to stop or to stare.
Consumed by their very own fires,
The one with the match ran aground.
Their tomorrow stolen by liars,
Screams as their last mortal sound.
“I guess this was a success”
Said the voice from a place that was safe.
“I’m proud that you gave me your best,
I call not one death here a waste.”
The chase over, and safe at the base,
The rebels let out a tear.
“Make them a headstone in case
Our children forget about here.”
Resting alone on the desk,
The matches will watch from afar:
As the boys stain their eyes a deep red
To try to forget who they are.