The Final Match

There was a boy who stowed A box of lollipops beneath his bed.Each evening he would take one outAnd gently scratch its head.And then the pop, so gleeful,would reveal its great surpriseA flower bloomed around its headAnd danced before his eyes.Each evening he would watch with aweTill the flower's life ran low,Then he'd save his fingers the flower's biteBy giving it a gentle blow.That was, until, the evening cameWhen there was but one pop left,And the boy knew something must be doneSo the flower could be kept.So as he struck the final match's headAnd watched his final flame die,He grappled for some last possible wayThat he might not say goodbye.So he placed the match upon his tongueAnd sucked the final flame dry.The boy no longer keepsA box of matches beneath his bed.His blood is fire, his words are smoke, his hair is glowing red.Know this, O reader, next time you thinkYou have to say goodbye,Take a leap of faith before you letYour precious and final flame die

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country

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