A
flicker,
a stare,
fires a
column
bled bare
by a pale
yellow, violet
flame
as
gliding wax moulds a
grip and steady drips set,
not unlike our game.
The Slowness of time
runs with our thoughts down
this vine, as I tease the quick
with scorched fingers. As
is your want, you navigate
my aim and like moths we
self destruct when we linger.
A breath of air releases a
care, and we flinch in the
flame’s parting sigh.
Sulphur from the quickening
strike reminds me of the
kindling light as
sleeping birds hum
and candlelit morn draws nigh.
As it Comes 