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. 


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