How slowly the candle burns,
flickers and mocks in the breeze.
In pain and fire for life it yearns,
keeps on melting till it freeze.
Born with a bright golden crown,
and dressed in serene white attire.
The wick hold on the blue frown,
born of decay, warmth and satire.
Not warmth, but shows the way,
to a traveller who missed the track.
Fights the cruel winds that sway,
at last in smoke, shows the way back.
Prasenjit©1997-2013
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