At first I am a single stick,
Made of simply wax and wick,
When exposed to just a spark,
I glow for hours in the dark.

I glow and glow but after that,
My wax flows down and forms a mat,
Every minute, more wax flows,
And every minute, the little mat grows.

In olden days I used to glow,
To provide warmth from the snow.
I also glowed to give some light,
To frightened people in the night.

Now technology had usurped my right
But when it fails, it’s me you light.
And then every minute, more wax flows,
And every minute, the little mat grows.

Little by little my height goes down,
The wax dried around me like a gown.
And then at last I am but a pool of wax,
And little ash from what in wick my body lacks.

But while I burn by flame with flair,
I am glad that I have served somewhere.
For every minute, more wax flows,
And every minute, the little mat grows.

This is what I do for you,
What I was made to do.
But handle me with care,
For I am fragile and bare.

A candle’s story now you have heard,
And it may sound absurd,
But in my short life every minute more wax flows,
And every minute the little mat grows.