The match strikes the box
The flame is lit
The flame quivers, flickers, then grows
Shines brightly, glows, illuminates our world.
Quickly, too quickly, the flame travels up the match
Burning brightly, full of energy, yet vulnerable too
The flame reaches the end of the match, it smoulders.
Still I hold on to it.
My fingers are burned.
All that is left are a few wisps of vapour
And a world gone up in smoke.
Based on the prompt word ‘smoke’