when the matches burn out,
the ashes don’t wither into nothing;
rather, they become a part of the whispering winds
that also carry memories and thoughts and looming escapades
that lure in those who are in tune
with the winds of the world,
all too enticed to let the feathers of the birds fly in their hair
and then, in them,
the longer the matches burn fire
and release the smoke of the past regressions
into the lingering airs
