The Imp in the Candle

a tall black candle, surrounded by white and gold ornaments and mugs, burns in a snow-frosted window.
candle fire by frosted window
Photo by Ioana Motoc on

Pebbles pelt and words welt,

these weapons came worst this last orbit of the sunbelt,

in the sweltering storms I feared I’d melt

and my wax armor felt

like an old wizard’s shielding spell

about to violently quell its quaking self

but inside the dying candle wax

I wore velvet

and I danced

like nothing could touch me

even if it dared

to burn me free.


Happy new year, here’s to taking on new things even if they sometimes hurt.

buy me a pizza

Another poem about a candle

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