Amidst the devouring darkness,
there stood a lone candle--
Standing tall and proud,
believing nothing
that it cannot handle.
This lone candle,
to the darkness, accustomed
and loneliness, a solace:
Now approached by
a swarm of moths,
Now surrounded by
cold, grouchy hands,
Now praised by
the feebles and cowardlies--
for the warmth and comfort
it provides.
Came rain or shine,
breeze or gust,
The little candle always stood there--
sometimes burning ever so bright,
sometimes flickering,
sometimes only existing:
To light up the room,
for those, whose darkness, cuss.
Day in, and day out
and the nights, throughout,
this little candle
continued to burn,
its wax slowly melted
and its wick, ashen--
Little did it know:
its days are numbered,
its end, forewarned.
One day, the lone candle
may burn no more:
Its flame put out,
its wick all burned out,
its wax, a messy layout--
Who would still
look for this little mess
that used to give out
warmth and comfort?
Who would still
love this little mess
that is now ugly
and distorted?
Who would even
miss this little mess
that used to be
a loyal company?
In time, the lone candle
will be forgotten
for it has grown out of
its usefulness:
Now instead of burning flame,
maybe it will
shed lonely tears.
HBY,
29 November 2020,
9.38am
YOU ARE READING
Overflowing
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry I have written throughout the years, whenever my head is overflowing with thoughts and my heart with emotions.
