It's a chilly autumn evening,
I sat for dinner with my gorgeous wife, leaning.
She turns of the artificial lights
and fires up a unimpressive wax candle and sighs.

The candle sits majestically on a hand made wooden stand,
My attention switches from her to it, like the seconds hand.
What's the story I wonder? Some of it melts down the stand,
some of it vanishes, ceases to exist, like dreamland.

It burns to give light and warmth
and yet asks nothing in return.

Wish I could be like a candle.

Back to dinner now.