A bill unscathed, letting the light rest,
And I eagerly rushed, to find my candle,
One with a smell, as satisfying as jasmine.
Barricaded within, its well-rounded glass.
Once lit, the room turns to its saturation.
The temperature, warm, radiant,
With its intoxicating combustion, only at its burn,
Never by flaw, but pure design.
Its zones of irritation, one of acceptance,
The deeper ones of disturbance, the primary, tolerant.
The tip burns the foreign pests, the light gracing the familiar.
The flame is strong, enough for their balance.
When it awakens, I let it fade.
I set, the candle aside,
Amongst the sweet-smelling flowers, its casing.
Where the residing scent is absorbed, for its next need of pleasure.
YOU ARE READING
Dimmed
PoezjaBroken by life's struggles, by love, but yearn to have it back? Blaze through the likely feeling of your emotions with these pieces which tell stories; The kind to make you feel like the spark you had around your dreams or ex-lover exists, but as fa...
