tired of pressing on, holding to the flame
while they dance in the rain
bones aching, the trees and houses blur
like pictures on someone’s staircase wall
memories of what happened and hopes of what could
are hardly real, and can never contain the moments
of dripping sadness or busyness that
steals my fire.
But I press against it all
the doors behind me smash into the frames, the
knobs break free and splinter the wood
with the pain of past dreams.
I breathe and pray for no more rain
cupping the candle in my palm–
it flickers in the wind of all
the time that rushes past my face.
the carpet rolls back as I look
up and see the glass roof cracking
splinters running through the spiderweb
of all I ever thought was real.
then it falls like snow around
the pictures, the staircase, and combs
the carpet with thorns.
but through the broken shelter
I can see the stars
they flicker in a world above my comprehension
surrounded by darkness and
still holding to the flame.
the house lies in the ruins of my making,
glass shattered, pictures scattered and carpet torn.
But in the silence I stand
with the star-struck blackness above
And think that I can carry my candle
for one more night.
The Candle and the Stars