poem?

 

Bedside table

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There is candle burning on the bedside table the flame flickering and consuming the wick

Yet the flame is desperately reaching, greedy for more

For something different anything different

The curtains on the window the sheets on the bed the rug covering the floor

It sits there quietly eating it the wick without a passing comment not a pop or sizzle

Greedy and grasping but quietly sitting waiting and hoping

And with quite sigh or gust of wind the flame is gone

The wick once white is blacked and freed

Changed and yet the same below the wax surfaces

And I see this on the bedside table and wonder

Who is the wick and who is the flame

Or in the end are we just the wax hard and soften by flame and freedom?

by Ladydeadsnowwhite

 

so just my (probably bad) poetry