A ode to the few true match sellers I have been privileged to know
I once lived on Kingdom
Street and used to walk its path
As I made my daily journey
into the worldly wise
And on either side, speaking
brimstone and oncoming wrath
Where the match sellers
trying to offer their little fires.
Their lights were bright,
their voices were crying aloud
And one by one, they struck
and lit the matches before me
They were but a performance
to the disinterested crowd
For their desire to sell made
them absurd to see.
They danced before me every
single raining day –
Telling me of how this little
light could change my soul
They lit and flung the
drowning matches into my fixed way
While they spoke to me of
fires, and lamps and coal.
They lit bright fireworks to
blaze upon our dark sky
They wrote songs like the
tavern lyrics we sang each night
And yet while they sang to me
of a life both bright and dry –
Their houses behind them were
devoid of warmth and light.
The windows had once seen
some golden sunrise but forgot
The doors were muddy from
their own damp tavern shoes
For the light was not there
in deed, but only thought
The only warmth these people
gave was to wooden pews.
To strike the matches to
their own lamps never crossed a mind
For what real part ever had this
day with their night?
In their choices, they were
the blind leading on the blind
Their kingdom had no place
for this intrusive light.
What if it shone upon the
places best kept deep and dark?
What if it urged them toward
a greater, martyred goal?
What if their lives became a
bonfire to this immortal spark?
And what if they were called
upon to pay the final toll?
No, it was far better to sell
this brightness quickly on
Then ever engage its pure
practice upon themselves
They disapproved of our beautifully perverse Babylon
But they wanted to live in
our world, not us by ourselves.
There were other match
sellers on that fateful street
And they were mocked by all
who passed them by
For they did not shout and
dance, only quietly entreat
That they might show us the
reasons why to buy.
Their backs bore the mark of
another’s heavy lash
Their hands were those of a
soldier’s, fighting long at war –
They did not stand together
in a pile of smoking ash
But held alone one glowing
torch before an open door.
The stained glass glowed stranger
than any rocket’s glare
And the candles lit the rooms
for all inside to see
There was indeed human
weakness and old evil there
But it was painted on the
walls, a portrait of who they used to be.
I watched, as painfully, they
lit another lamp to consume
The dark, and heard the
mocking jeers of the sentimentalist,
“Light
not the side issues, our only purpose is their impending doom –
If you care that much, then here! The mark of the fundamentalist!”
For many years I watched them
both as I walked their way
And saw a heritage rising
strong before my eyes
For many children stood in
the doorways of the day
And yet pattering feet soon
left the homes of harsh cries
To seek out warmth and light,
they ran to Our Woman’s arms –
Babylon the Great welcomed
them with a luster never known
For unlike their parents, she
could read their palms
She saw that their hunger,
she could feed to make Her own.
And in the doorways of the
light, silhouettes there stood
That few were changed through
many passing years
The souls that left departed
as they would
But few they were, and
forever mourned with bitter tears.
For to the third and fourth
generations of those who loved Him
To those who truly burnt for
the torch could not help but light
Those little ones following
on behind them
To also burn themselves alive
in pure, flaming fight.
One day I could not help but
stop, and ask one bent old man –
“What
is the reason for this light? This light your grandson is holding there?
Sell
to me, I wish to know if, indeed, there is a greater plan –
You
are the reason that I have stopped, by the mark you bear.”
The
old man’s brand shone with pride another world must give
While
his scars dimly mirrored greater ones above
He
drew me close, and lit my match, “My son, you live!
We
here, we burn and struggle in true testament of love.”
“For
if this world keeps turning, we must turn along with it
And
seek out souls to guide them to the Way
These
matches in our hearts must be forever lit
By
the actions that we make, and the words we must say.
And
if we do not light our lamps with the words we sell
Then
how can we ever halt this sun in its flaming sky?
Unless
we struggle to a great goal, never shall they tell
That
we change the course of nations by the dark we all defy.”
