The Candle’s Flame

The Candle’s Flame

I lit the wick with steady hands

in a room too dark, too full of demands.

The flame rose small, then dared to sway

like a pulse that knew it had to stay.

Not a blaze, not a beacon — just enough,

to keep the dark from calling bluff.

The wax dripped down like wasted time,

but the light held on, steady, sublime.

I watched it flicker, sharp then soft,

like a memory breathed from somewhere aloft.

Not pure, not still, not ever tame

just real, just there, just not the same.

It didn’t speak, it didn’t plead,

it burned for no one, had no need.

Yet it warmed the chill I wore

like a friend I’d never met before.

And when it died, it left no smoke

just silence deep, no vow, no joke

and I sat there still, unshaken, raw

grateful to light, and what I saw.