Ode to a matchstick

I strike it across the surface
With a phosphor smell it
makes its presence felt
Dancing in the air like a
timid fairy, but potent.
Potent enough to math
Lucifer's wrath, it stays.
A sudden gust of wind kill it
to leave an evanescent column
of frail smoke and a
splinter of burnt charcoal,
Its purpose unfulfilled.
I light another , covering it,
protecting it,
I made it caress the tip of
my cigarette giving birth
to the orange luminescense
and the warm smoke,
Like it does to million others
each day.
I waved it to die, abandoned it,
like a used prostitute,
pleasure derived out of,
its purpose fulfilled.
Forgotten the next moment,
the splinter that was a
demure matchstick,
That was carved from the
blood, sweat and toil of
poor blind children.
Used. Burnt. Forgotten.