seventeen candles
and a calendar of semi-regreta
prancing on the table
amidst the pure emptiness of the moment
talent bleeds for nothing
(abide with the sky and all will be fine)
red shutters on the houses
and violets in the green by the road
numbers blur into a mirage of senseless digits,
the air reminds why
days spent in fear, months wasted on heartbreak
that made everything come into place
so blow out candles, you're too old to be so shy
that boy you love is october's favourite medium
until the midnight smothers the embers,
breathe in the quaint dozen plus five fires at your lips
it's seventeen candles, not seventeen knives

-cj