Six Candles

On the palm of my hand sit six candles,
uneven in size, shape; yet
equal in brilliance.

They flick and flare
open to the whims of unknowable forces,
pressures; a refraction

of vital light
along the angle of mortality.
How fearless they appear

safe in my sheltered cave,
yet the fingers are bending, pulled back
and rubble showers around their

orange-red flicker hearts.
It takes only an odd occurrence,
a gale force moment to snuff each light;

the outer pentagon falters,
their brilliance dull. Soon the last falls.
Temporal only in lightened existence;

a split-moment, broken-second,
mind-blowing, earth-moving
unexpected - - - - -

crash -
kills them all.

My fingers are burnt.