Burn Along

 

If you had been a pretty doll of wax
Which froze behind a glass wall
With folded hands and a painted smile,
They would have adored you;
Guarded your delicate form and poise;
And kept you right in front of their eyes.
But you chose to be a sombre candle
Warped around a persevering wick;
You chose to be lit to light up their lives.
And burned with hope and grace.
You burned even when they blithely walked away.
Hot tears trickled down your dissolving face.
But there were no hands to wipe them.
Your flame writhed and struggled.
But there were no hands to guard it.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)