The Last Match Stick

I am the last match stick, in the pocket of my owner, about to take the last breath.

It is my last submission to my owners smoking deed, which can't last long.

A dark slumber is going to clear the owner's doubt-will I survive - soon with its sword of knowledge.

It's a fight between shadow of ignorance and knowledge.

The flame from me is smaller than the burning flame of my owner to lit the last match for his last desire. I adhered to the oath of my usage without emotions and inferences; hence, ready to come out where my owner wishes.

I live only for my self; hence, dead to my owner.

My owner lives only for the ego; hence, dead to me.

The rise of the ownership over me accelerated in the lowest realms of clinging that stirred the ignorance- soon that will stir infinite slumber.

           

I am ignorant of what I wanted to be, Only my owner and designer knows what I am and I will be.

To live in such ignorance enriches my sword of compassion with which I have burnt uncountable.

In burning things, I am not robbing their lives, but living because of robbery.

It matters not how long I stay in the case, but how long I stay alive.

Every second I contemplate on a single thought- whom I owe my self, not who owns me.

Also, I suspect my interest- whether I serve the interests of the owner or the owner, mine.

            

Each time, I am struck to the walls of the matchbox, I count down my seconds on this earth- also is my owner.

I am driven from without, the owner, within.

I have chemical reactions-not physical and mental, but my owner both.

           

The owner used several of my box-mates, since the color of his head and mine matched- which now matches with the smoke- the smoke that comes after departure, and the smoke which he loves to breathe in and out.

I washed my filth, by offering my self by surrendering to my flame, my owner to the smoke. At the last strike, I offered my body to the last smoke - the smoke of my owners burnt body.