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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