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.
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Author:
Leny Rose M. Villasis (
Offline) - Published: July 12th, 2025 08:29
- Category: Sad
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
For the metaphor and expansion on it that all makes sense a fave. Very nicely worked to great effect.
This is quietly powerful, Leny. I love how the flame becomes both comfort and catalyst, tender at first, then transforming everything. That final stanza is especially poignant…not destruction for its own sake, but space-making. Beautifully done. 🌹👏 Welcome to MPS! A fave for sure!
Well written and expressed
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