The flame quivered
Beneath my words:
A mumbled prayer,
A plea, an epitaph -
Perhaps it may have been,
If anybody had heard.
Just myself and that little flame,
Enshrined in wax.
I wonder if it might
Warm these trembling hands,
If the night could be held at bay
By this lone little flame.
I think for a while; I plan
On how to become a better man -
The kind who answers
Mumbled prayers,
Pleas, who rescues bleeding hearts
And delays the need
For those lonely epitaphs.
I dream of how to be him,
How to wield the light,
But it seems I am too late -
Whilst I was thinking,
The wick has curled up,
Blackened, and the wax is
All but gone.
My little flame -
Not even an ember stills remains.
I can remember what I was thinking of,
But I can't recall why.
That little light, my sweet flame...
I know now what I needed to do,
But it's no longer the right time.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
