Candle-Life
by Odin Roark

Wicks held captive,
Protected embryos held in tethered limbo
Awaiting the moment
When life is aflame.

How varied the shimmering first breath,
Whether beneath a citadel of worship,
A first birthday,
A stealth venture into the attic,
Or an exploration of one's personal catacombs.

Such a simple tool this,
Made companion to realms of imagination
Perhaps a comfort-place of isolation
Where one's dreams and fears,
Await the ever-faithful flame of illumination.

For just as birth awaits its singular reality,
So too the protected string,
Encased in its molten womb,
Knows that to be
Is to burn.

Only the candle knows
Its glimmering heat
Its brightness flickering
Seeks no identity to possess,
But solely to serve.

And of this life
This candle that lives but to burn,
Is beholden to the desire of one's need,
One's willingness to allow the flame its freedom,
Even as it knowingly accepts eventual dimming,
When expended radiance will retire,
Hoping its life is only at rest.

With sadness,
It lies before the many boxed candles
Ensconced in their own kind of darkness,
Their reward of being alive
Yet to ignite.