Deep in the night,
lying on the couch and
watching the candle burn
on the end-table at my feet.
The house is quiet.
Silence only broken
by my grandmother's clock,
ticking my life away.
The candle has burned
more than halfway down
in the jar it was poured in.
I light it a lot, as I like the smell...
Even though protected,
it flickers each time
the furnace comes on,
disturbed by unseen forces.
I know tomorrow
I will need to clean the soot in the jar.
Why do even the simplest pleasures
always demand a reckoning?
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