I lit a candle in a quiet room,
My hands were steady, but I wasn’t sure.
I always held the match, but never used it,
Not until the wind promised it wouldn’t blow.
The gentlest air made it flicker,
And the wax also begins to lose its form.
It was the warmth I thought would last,
It did, until it burned too bright and left nothing to keep me warm.
Because sometimes even the gentlest fire,
Can turn the walls to ash,
Not to destroy, but to clear the space
For something better to begin.