The Match Story Poem by Pleasant Dabbs

A short and gritty runway's scratch
Ignites the flimsy wooden timber
An oil lamp's view transcends the match
But exercise keeps fingers limber

Each day a routine ably forged
The Holy Writ was read at dawn
The craftsman's soul wished to be gorged
With gems of truth as the day moved on

At workdays end the sun traversed
His work domain, in crept the night
Once home, lit a match, read one more verse
The morrow brought the selfsame fight

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