The Candlewick
The clock wouldn’t stop, nor was it to slow down, the sun merciless with orange.
I Savour the Burn of the arid days.
The bleeding sunsets and calm waves, all whispering over and over.
Like a broken carousel around and around once again.
The day was done and the daydreams kept gushing.
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Smoke and abrupt laughs my dawn was Blue, Blue, Blue.
The candlewick draws closer and closer the wax gapes, humbled by the faint fire.
The joke of life burning steady, a lifetime of waiting and nothing to live for.
A dove on my window sill bleeding under the sun.
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The pure white of it all was so innocent.
It bled drop by drop as the candle burned on.
It was a tragic Friday.