Candles

The light catches and runs.

The wick turns

Into a charred thread that is curling in

Upon itself.

The tip glows like gold

Or like heaven.

Just don't try to touch it,

Because the flame,

It scorches the skin in an instant.

It's a blistering fire,

Direct and piercing,

Like a finger from hell,

Pointing at you,

Singling you out.

But then again,

You brought it upon yourself.

I told you not to touch it!

The wax melts and forms a pool.

It sometimes pours over the edges,

Dripping and drying before it ever

Reaches the bottom.

Isn't that sad?

The death of a drop.

I wonder,

Was it a failed attempt of escape

Or did it intend

To turn the candle into a new

Deformed creation?

I think it's more beautiful

After it's been burning for hours.

"Why?" You ask.

That's a stupid question.

It's not that simple.

That is the answer.

It has given up its elemental simplicity.

Would you do that?

Would you?

Simply for the sake of being more interesting?

For the possibility of having crevices and ridges

And little black bits swimming inside of you

And melding themselves into your walls.

Would you really let that happen?

When it's collapsing into itself,

I would imagine that it feels a sense of

Freedom

Or release

Or maybe even fear.

But then again,

Inanimate objects don't have feelings.

Do they?

The more they burn,

The more likely they are to burn out.

Everyone is entitled to sacrificial moments.

Even candles,

I guess.