I watched the candle die
Fighting for its last breath at the bottom of the glass
Its bending and twisting, squirming to resist the inevitable, blue and orange intertwined, dancing like a gypsy on hot coals
Crackling like wind down a telephone, re-igniting as I turn my back
My inspiration lies in the black pit of its carriage
Drawing my eyes still and making me pity its loneliness, like the last breath of a dying man
The air smells like burnt wax
The light inside has finally gone
The flame extinguished and the hot scars around the top a cursed reminder of its struggle.
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