My weary gaze is drawn
to the tired
flickering
of a nearly-spent candle
forgotten on a windowsill,
unprotected
from the elements.
Why won’t somebody
just shut the window
that reflects the
dark and cloudy sky,
I wonder,
or at least
move the flame
farther away
from the cold,
unyielding wind?
It winks
at the passersby
in a taxing,
rebellious act.
I give
a humorless
laugh.
The plasma dims
for a moment,
but comes back
to life
in a brief second
of stillness.
It is in
a surreal haze
that I note
my heartbeat matches
the weakened
flame.
Perfectly.
Light.
Thump.
Dark.
Thump.
The storm
is brewing,
I can feel it.
It is possible
the flame
won’t survive
the night.
The only
question is;
which storm
will break
first?
Really enjoyed your poem! Beautifully written. Loved the way you ended the poem with a poignant question.
Thanks!