Little flame flickers away from Time. It is the only thing that is holy and mysterious, self-containing wizard. Wax drips down and solidifies. I nudge it with my finger and it gives. It is a shapeshifter. Odo in the night who doesn’t know who he is. The wick will never fail us. It is God at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel. Abe Lincoln in the 1850s, reading while Mary Todd scrubs the laundry. Cold, drafty log cabin house. Maple syrup drizzled on a snowy day. Aching for more. Aching for warmth. Candles are fear and love. Hot wax in a con artist firefracker. It could light up the sky. And I am too awake for this. Morning spell has broken, I am too aware of myself. Trying to get it all done. Candle as weapon. Candle as projectile. Church, prayers, Christ on the Cross, and Capital Letters that have no Meaning except the One we Assign Them. King James Bible and therapy for life. Songbooks and dinner shows. Communion with a cracker. Wine tastes sweet. Dinner with the in-laws. Fishing on the boat. FDA does not approve. Afraid of fire, even the flicker of small flames; Together, many look like eyes. Watching, watching, watching. Waiting. Their patience is legendary. The light is not enough to write. It can relax or terrify. It depends what kind of trip you want. Salisbury steak on an airliner, chicken dinner on trains. It’s travel, it ends up in the toilet. Plunging my mind half-heartedly, distractedly. Break the candle in half to find the wick, the rope, holding it all together. Now it is crippled and maimed, but still maybe usable. Still functional, but not what the store intended. Shopping carts filled with candles, long cylinders of loneliness, dominoes down the stairs. When will it ever end? Candles that smell good and sweet, candles that smell like nothing, candles that try too hard and end up smelling awful. I can taste the smoke rising from the birthday cake as the candles are blown out. As we take them off, we lick the frosting one-by-one. A preview and teaser of what’s to come. Chocolate cake with vanilla pudding filling. Probably from the supermarket.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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