tiny flame


in a glass-encased candle,

how tempting it is

to snuff you out.

small, struggling, 

barely fulfilling your purpose of

aiding your candle mother

in giving off a 

delicate rose scent.

why shouldn’t I

put an end 

to your waning existence?

flame still dancing,

still persevering,

exhibiting a will to flicker and nod


it still burns

despite its slim chances

of continuing to do so

for much longer.

dance on, wee flame.

you are made of the same stuff as

the strongest inferno. 



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