A candle made; to burn so bright
trembled in the wind,
did not know; if it was right
for flame; is ancient sin,
its waxy worth; spilt on floor
crying; when it bled,
wearing all its achy sores
wishing it was dead,
lo’ when the gale broke,
flickers; turned so still,
reflective thought; began to choke
to stoke; a hearty will,
thus; chose to keep ablaze;
until a snuffer comes,
sparkled true; in such dark days
surrounded by its crumbs,
painfully; it dwindled down
where silent tears did drain,
the heat on top; was hollow crown
hence; drowned in heavy rain,
then; a whisper; came from wick; to
resurrect some hope,
next; there came; a timely trick
which reignited cope,
autumn years; did gleam,
with less dark-talk emotion,
just a joyous little dream
not making a commotion,
so; when it does extinguish,
no questions; will it ask, it
simply will distinguish:
I am, a happy flash!