A candle burns for all of you today;
marshalls its unflinching flame, braces
for the quick sharp blast of sudden breath
as the dark inhales a strand of smoke.

I know the darkness but I am no prince,
just another faceless futile serf
scratching out a meager sustenance
from the barren, stony soil of conscience.

The field lay fallow far too long a time
and weedy evil sprouted, flourished, nourished
by the rocks which trip me, send me sprawling
on the ground where you once grew as flowers,

wild with color, scent - a spot of peace
planted with no purpose but to please.
Each of you would bloom in your own time,
bringing me to roll and thrash on you;

trampling blossoms, stomping on your stems
and walking off elated by perfume,
unthinking of the crushed and damaged leaves
and unconcerned to cultivate your growth.

An undeserved damnation of indifference
damped your fragrance, dried your colors bright
and left your stalks to rustle in the wind
which whistles, cold and steady through my life.

Day by day I **** and dig up stones,
sow my seeds, pray for grace and rain
and light a candle every Sunday morn
with cursed darkness weighting every stride.