Fresh from the incubator… we come out a box,
Newly born and eager to burn.
The doctor’s smack lights the wick,
A weak flicker is the start.

In his teens the wind bends the flame to go with the flow,
But flickering moments of dark then light
Teach it straight to grow
And that the way of shadows is not the way to go.

The steady flame now burns long,
Wide shedding light for many to follow.
But the etch of wax-runs on his face
Tell of many a hard year come and gone.

Now the wick is growing short,
As bent he leans upon a stick.
Once again the flame is weak… just a glow,
As dimly now he views the world.

Sadly it begins to flicker… crackle
His voice hoarse from years of shinning.
Finally down comes the cold dowser
And swiftly snuffs out the life.

Now only rises his spirit… a mere wisp of grey
As once again he lays waxen white… in a box.