Poetry: The Last Drop of Kindness

Beside the weary lampstand was a box of matches.
There were about a hundred or more sticks.
Enough to burn down a city and all it patches,
And to pull down torrid bricks.

Now the lamp was going out.
What use is the box of matches
If this lantern faces drought
And no oil before its ashes?

Kweku stood beside the flame
Observing the confident smoke
Hurrying off in shame
That disappeared before the day broke.

This reminded him of living,
Which was the first phase of dying.
And the punishment of disbelieving,
That accompanies trying.

But this wasn’t about the lamp, or the fire that it lit.
It wasn’t about the flame or the warmth from its heat.
It was about the memories and from whom they came.
This was about being everything, especially his last name.

Leonell