Flames play in the soft breeze that slides through the cracks in the walls protecting me from the world, or keeping me from it.
It whispers and dances, changing all that is real.
Shadows stretch and slide across the four walls, questioning all that is known.
The compass point of the teardrop fire seems to guide, and is certain in its uncertainty.
Like a profit, it draws endless pictures in smoke; secrets untold and soon lost again forever.
Lines break, shapes merge and a new reality is born again.
The core keeping the life, keeping the warmth and selflessly living the life of a martyr, teaching and sharing in times of confusion and darkness at its own demise.
Dripping its life into a past that will surely be discarded and never to be thought of again.
All that remains is a puddle of wax, a puddle of what once was.
It whispers and dances, changing all that is real.
Shadows stretch and slide across the four walls, questioning all that is known.
The compass point of the teardrop fire seems to guide, and is certain in its uncertainty.
Like a profit, it draws endless pictures in smoke; secrets untold and soon lost again forever.
Lines break, shapes merge and a new reality is born again.
The core keeping the life, keeping the warmth and selflessly living the life of a martyr, teaching and sharing in times of confusion and darkness at its own demise.
Dripping its life into a past that will surely be discarded and never to be thought of again.
All that remains is a puddle of wax, a puddle of what once was.
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