It seems so pathetic of me, a palsied husk
To sit so feebly here to ponder upon such great extremes
As that of life and death
Neither of which hold much concern for the likes of me
Tiptoeing like a thief in the walls that I call home
To sit as an enthused exile in these darkest spots
With the tip of my pen, bleeding ink,
Resting in the crook of my swollen lips
I’ve paused after constant chewing
Nibbling on the elixir of profound thought
Which has yet to fully assail me
The candle has some nights left
Before it sputters and dies
Leaving me behind with nothing more
Than a wisp of dizzying smoke
To creep around my senses
And I observe its fragile descent
As it surrenders to the heat of its heart
A bright star of self-immolation
Overwhelmed by its essence and forced to flee
Abandoning itself to its own whims and vice
To be left as a slowly solidifying carcass
That cannot restore itself to its true height
No shelter for candle wax tonight in my house
In drips and drabs it seeps
Away from the inferno of its only awareness
But such knowledge is not meant to be shared with me
But memory cannot help but haunt me
I have had no stranger dreams
Than of hot wax trespassing on my floor
I am late
The night calls loudly to me; surrender
Burnt as the used wick that flails in the meagre breeze
And I sit in poor substitute for the life I had loved
For I am here alone, and the darkness offers no comfort
No sanctuary to the blind.
