The Candle

The hand reaches down from heaven
A clenched fist of chrome glints in natural light, eternal
A finger of flame stretches out to give a gift
An unwanted kiss atop my head

Prometheus retreats as soon as he came
But as his seed I remain
Standing alone on borrowed time
The dark hisses and dances on a shadow’s line

I’ve nothing to do but feel myself shrink
In a quicksand seat of wax
Like the dark, it gives way as my heat draws near
My wick, burning slow, gives it time to retreat
Stretching my burn ever longer for the unknown patron

Whether as a twist of fate, a granted wish, or random happenstance
I find myself burning hotter than I should
Sinking faster than I should
Growing closer to the wax than I should

I’ve nothing to do but feel my life shrink
Feel my lungs fill
Feel my flame expire
Extinguished by my own design
The last thought I think…
Was I ever asked to be lit?
The lighter flicks.