This is the candle: held in my delicate hand
Like a gun, or a key to the mind’s locked places.
It traces the air like memory, cruelly, and
Both illuminates and occludes all quiet spaces.
This is three inches of death. Perfectly rolled
In a sentence, beginning, middle, eventually end.
The end I keep, and so the tale is told
Of begging, meddling, lending oneself to lend
Five minute’s grace. The pace of breath is fine;
Conducting at rest a symphony for its sake.
Its restless gloom is comforting, and mine,
And all is mine in the shadows in its wake.
I like a smoke, I do. One day I shall stop, truly stop. Tonight, we dine.