The candle melts under it’s own flame
Teardrops of wax drip down its face.
Pale and naked atop a narrow pillar
A gently trembling leaf of yellow light.
Bright blue at the bottom, a cooler color
Mysterious amidst the warmth of fire.
A little pool of liquid collects below
The heat that makes it melt and flow.
A miniature molten mountain collects
Around a once-tall column of white wax.
A wisp of smoke swirls upwards, a ghost
From an exhausted black wick, the host.
It’s primitive technology, an ancient invention.
The long history is hardly worth a mention.
It’s an infantile flame, the size of a moth
Eternally hungry, and eager for a cloth.
A careless creature of constant consumption,
A tiny piece of pure, dutiful destruction.
One of the myriad marvels of Mother Matter,
And a greedy one, feasting simply to get fatter.
Burning fire, bridled by mankind, and domesticated
Loved for its warmth and its light, but respected
For its willingness to take what it wants
And the delicate balance of death it flaunts.