The candle lights himself
At poles both North and South
Sweating under pressure
of each flame's gnashing mouth

His blood pools at his feet
Leaving only the brand
of a story all too common-
Wax's final stand

All the others pity him-
a tarnish on their pewter
the silver wear averts their gaze
nervous glances prod the persecutor

Now mangled in a heap
His ruin lies before
shocked faces of onlookers
possessed by suicidal gore

But the candle parishes in vain
for none can see his message
the true purpose of his sacrifice
lost among the presage

A flame is only temporary
Yet we strain to prolong its light
Don't force what wasn't meant to be
By stealing the Fire's might.