A lame table barely stands in a darkened room.
Upon it sits a candelabra tainted with scarlet rust,
Holding like a pedestal two forgotten candles.
One, with its cardinal design, flamboyantly lit
This room a brilliant red and gold,
And illuminated guests
While eating lamb from porcelain plates.
The other, with its pale hue, pitifully lit
Its master's chamber a dreadful orange,
And guided his sleep
To the land of Devilish dreams.
Their melting paraffin forms pools of elegant simplicity,
While the candles slowly get consumed,
No more to sit upon a lame table in a darkened room.