Matchbox Almost Empty

So far, it has existed
as a golden coin
enclosed in ice,
precious, yet distant.

I ask the sun to thaw
this cloistered treasure
but the sun is powerless:
only my sight
can break through
this fortress.

Sometimes, I doubt
its very nature:
self-deception?
Hallucination?
The answer is buried
beneath the frozen fields
of my very being.

Meanwhile,
everybody else glows
like stained glass
in the summer sun:
they burn, too,
but they illuminate
their own path,
they're the flame
and the fuse.

My matchbox
is almost empty,
with every strike
the wind seems
to blow harder.