A matchstick

A stick , with a burning head
A tiny star
Instinct of slow death grew In its mist.
Chandeliers hanging from dust.

I bolt my eyes .
A hot silent atmosphere
Without a light,
Another night .
Carefully I gaze my thoughts behind curtains of needles .
river of questions
crashing oblivion.

A stick, with a burning head
A planet suffering from the dust within the ego
And its prey .