My weary gaze is drawn
to the tired
flickering
of a nearly-spent candle.
Forgotten on a windowsill,
unprotected
from the elements.

Why won't somebody
just shut the window
that reflects the
dark and cloudy sky,
I wonder,
or at least
move the flame
farther away
from the cold,
unyielding wind?

It winks
at the passersby
in a taxing,
rebellious act.
I give
a humorless
laugh.

The plasma dims
for a moment,
but comes back
to life
in a brief second
of stillness.

It is in
a surreal haze
that I note
my heartbeat matches
the weakened
flame.

Perfectly.

Light.
Thump.

Dark.
Thump.

The storm
is brewing,
I can feel it.
It is possible
the flame
won't survive
the night.

The only
question is;
which storm
will break
first?