Burning candles
It was a quarter past seven,
when the lights went out.
With the candle lit
its flame made a flicker with my sighs,
I sit here, at the table,
My head bent low,
And now begin to write...
I feel at home,
And here lie the objects that
hush down that crimson silence,
growing within my soul...
Father's comb holds a few grays,
He has aged
Why...it seldom occured to me,
Must I blame his childish grin that's there to stay...
In this room it echoes
in crimson waves.
Mother's kettle, with its broken spout
Still pours us tea every morning,
A gift received on her wedding day
it paints a portrait of her marriage.
And then those nitty gritty bits
that make living better.
A sausage pan with tea stained cups,
Delineate the events of that day...
Father rushed with the cup in hand,
"The tea wasn't brewed with ginger" he had complained.
These objects,they belong here,
and have aged along with me,
But it's this dying light
that cast their oblong shadows in my mind.
And as the candle light dies,
these objects disappear into the night.
I'll see them tomorrow as well,
But tomorrow they will be things of yesterday..
Until a crimson glow from a candle flame,
makes me write about them
yet again...
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