This slender stem—
the wax-imprisoned
soul
of candle’s being—
Ignited,
starts the
slow
descent
toward death;
Converting
its encasing flesh
to molten drops
that hang
like tears upon a cheek,
the painful price
of
making life
more
luminous.
Until—
substance spent,
cylindrical shell dissolved—
it makes its final peace
with night,
consumed
by its own passion
to shed
light.
—Donald DeMarco
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