Being the Flame

Afraid faces afar, trembling hands, all it could see — Meant not to touch but fear, all it was allowed to be. Nowhere to stay, none to hold, no surface meant to keep. Everything that let him near, did so on borrowed heat. And amid those who recoiled, lay the one who believed. Fire’s not just to burn — but to delay the cold a while. So it chose to give itself to what stood in need. It burned to shape the glow, a candle, they called it. They gathered around, welcomed the light newfound. Soft warmth filled the room, the flame found a new sound. And once feared, it was welcomed closer, for the dark no longer stayed. Wax dripped drop by drop — the flame mistook it as grace. Rings around it grew, until the brightness had a name. The candle kept shortening, while the flame was lost in fame. Soon, the wax touched the ground, melting still toward its own. The lost flame—no height, no hold, flickered, fainted and then was gone. Maybe we, sometimes, are the flame, held by love we never learned to keep. We burn the source to call it light, and find no ground when it’s spent.