A candle flickers, a gentle light sways.
Nothing else visible by the candlestick’s rays.
The soft bright glow reflects off of the running wax,
Giving the appearance of tears leaving behind sad tracks.
The lone candle softly weeps, for this is the final time it will light a room
80 years ago, was the very first time it was lit, to guide a man at his loom.
This man, its owner, worked by its light and sold his textiles in the sun
But few years later died, passing on the trade to his one and only son.
His son, sold the loom and ran a workshop for tin,
He rarely lit him though, for the furnace was brighter than him.
Twenty years have passed and the candle only half burned,
It scratched and itched at day, hoping at night it would have a turn.
The man died of old age and his youngest of three sons took the candle,
And the boy put it next to his father’s picture on the mantle.
Years had flown by and the boy of eighteen, now fifty.
He lost all the money to his name, drinking away his self-pity.
Now the drunken man, sat down and lit the wick,
He had no love and no hope and decided to give in.
A simple death, the poor candle could not bare to view
But now he weeps his final tears, to die along side his final owner, in a waxy pool.