The tiny wick, beginning to waver

Carries the tiny red-orange flame.

And that tiny hope that lingers within

Still clutches on to a tiny name.



The little candle is persevering.

It flickers, weakening, the little blaze.

What little chances one has left

Will only be there if a little hope stays.



Surrounded by shadows, the quaint fire surges.

Through the black shines the glowing, quaint spot of light.

The darkness, consuming; the quaint flame burns on.

And the quaint flare radiates through the dark of the night.



But if one blew out this small spot of sun,

The shadows would swallow the small room into black.

And that small ounce of chance that was there before

Is gone with the light, the small hope that one lacks.



If the wee faith that one had in themselves

Blows out in the dark like the wee candle that burned,

Every wee chance they had of good happenings

Has vanished. That's a wee lesson to learn.