Struck Matches Poem by Mark Heathcote

Sitting Quayside, struck matches, burnt fingers,
Fingers numb, burning still but numb as can be.
Staring blankly at the dark fissures in the water
Each wave pool whispers, speaks, and says, Come with me.
Eternal rest, you long for to suffice—
Just follow; don't second-guess tomorrow.
Concentric ripples speak without malice.
'Empty' is the gurgling of a plughole-condo.
That drains all your expendable income.
Assets that you haven't got to lose—bodies
Drift by here always, whose lost dynamism-
Chills jolt with every thought that tarries...
Onwards and forth, when love has died and drowned,
It's no good use to question if suicide sounds.