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A single wick candle sits burning in a bowl
Reflecting onto dozing concrete walls
A man cowers there, curled into a ball
Tears pool into his cracking hands
His eyes burn and sting
Only the moaning wind whistles a melody
Howling as it barrels down the alley
Nearly extinguishing the flame
The man shoves the bowl closer to the wall
To the tiny corner which has become his bed
Pocked with holes and broken with ice
But the wind has no purchase there
It may pull and flutter at the edges of his coat
The flame may flicker madly
A single wick candle sits burning in a bowl
Reflecting into that concrete corner
A man rests there, tears pooling from heavy lids
Tears drip into his hat, onto the floor
Only the moaning wind whistles a melody
YOU ARE READING
Triumphant
PoetryA collection of poetry, some long and some short, exploring a wide range of topics, experiences and genres.
