In a box, kept in a drawer
a candle sits and yearns for more.
“To be lit,” it contemplates,
“is all my very life awaits.”
So it dreams of flame and light
whilst all around is darkest night.
Day by day it thus remains
as wind and snow give way to rains.
In that drawer, next to the box
amidst the pins, and bits of clocks
Lies a match, gladly ignored;
One use, and out its life is poured.
“Here I’m safe,” it thinks, relieved,
and so abides, nothing achieved.
Day by day, it seems content,
as rain gives way to flowers’ scent.
Then one day, appears a hand.
(Its presence neither one had planned).
It selects some spring or bolt,
and leaving, gives the box a jolt.
To the drawer the candle falls
and wakes up from sleep’s gauzy halls.
Jostled thus, and quite amused,
the match says, “I’ll bet you’re confused!”
Quipping back, the candle jests,
“Is that how you greet all your guests?”
So begins a fine debate,
that lasts until it grows so late.
Finally, as such things do,
the laughter turns to something new.
The candle sighs, and whispers low
its deepest wish: to glow, to glow.
Still intentionally unfinished
31 December, 2008