The Candle
 

A cataract of wax,
Frees itself from the flame
And cascades down, down,
To change its form.
It becomes as hard as stone,
But still the flame burns on.

A red flag, flying in the wind,
Blowing here and away,
A beacon to signal,
An island of light,
Around which objects float,
In a sea of darkness.

A glimmer of existence,
A slight sense of solidity,
Hard facts amidst the gloom,
Struck by the glow,
The glittering, golden glow,
That finds and illuminates.

Light, struck to the ends of the universe,
Hope at the edge of the abyss.
Thin, optimistic light, searching,
Searching for something unknown.
A creeping fear of the dark,
Soon to engulf the flame’s promise.