with the slightest breeze
his flame blows out into the
wind. Circling and billowing in
my honey hair I cough and choke

breathing in his air. He burns
both ends every day, growing smaller
as he melts away. He doesn't break
as glass. He weeps hot wax

running down his wick, till he
looks a homeless bearded man
that's sick. Bent over he passes
gas in his holder. And smolders as

a cigarette. The **** years
of work and sweat. No light, no flame
no ivory tower, just a stump of man
with dreams that soured.