The Candle

It sparks to life by
Some other's flame;
The heat of another passes
Into the wick which sustains its being.

It hesitates at first,
Unused to the warmth
Of a burning light,
So fragile and fleeting.

As the wind passes by
It flickers in fear,
Fighting for its entitlement
To breath the oxygen of the air.

Dancing about above a waxy platform,
Floating as if a ghost.
It is untouchable to others,
Beginning and ending in timeless fashion.

And as it reaches higher
As if for something, or someone,
The solid cylinder of hourglass wax
Melts slowly as a reminder of the inevitable.

It burns steady as it yearns frantically.
Its body has dwindled near to nothing.
But the flame fights with ferocity.
Still reaching.
The wick is down to its last twisted thread
And there is a subtle intensity
About a bluish glow.
With no warning it snaps into smoke,
Rising quickly, quietly,
Snaking in silence into nothing.

And thus it is gone, leaving but
A ruined wick in its own ashes
Amongst a puddle of what it once was.