Jul 31, 2025
The Candle
Beneath a wan and waning moon the sleeping continent turned, and in a still and desperate room, a candle wanted to burn.
Atop a cedarwood shelf it sat, so high up in the air, that none—excepting perhaps the cat— remembered it was there.
The candle, which had once been red and meant for clerical rites, had stood so long, its dusty head had faded to mostly white.
Beside a tangle of mousy cloth, a bolt, two keys, a latch, it held its resolute wick aloft and waited for its match.
And, as in countless years, the hours slipped silently through the night, and send no god nor earthly powers to set the candle alight.
The moon is happy in borrowed glow, the stars to boil and churn, but in its forgotten cabinet, know: the candle wants to burn.
