The life of a soul
is like a candle.
Birth ignites the solid
wick,
and a fire, consuming, is breathed
into the malleable consciousness;
the wax of knowledge
is melted
and molded.
The soul is born
quite opposite of animosity,
and thrives in the
rapture of curiosity.
It is whole,
with nothing foretold
but that existence unfolds,
till pain settles and
fringes the rim.
Fear and hurt and loathing,
the gusts of extinguishing,
take back the breath of ignition,
and leave the candle's wax to settle
as before.
However, to the surprise of the mind,
observers shall find, that much like
the levels of wax still to mold,
the conscious, depressed,
is weary
and much less bold,
but, yet, passion thrives,
and the fire survives,
anew to seek what is
more potent
and true.
The cycle continues,
repeating.
Melting and fading and
melting and
fading,
and
Knowledge is gained!
Ignorance is burned like
the wick of the soul's
candle!
Until the wax is quite low,
and the fire won't show,
and the wick of life's candle,
once burning and fading,
is now dying.
The enlightened light,
the fire and shine,
was snuffed into nothing
by time.
The wax's decreasing
was brought forth
with the increase of knowledge;
with the process of living;
with the suffereing of wisdom.
Perhaps, then,
ignorance is not bliss,
but bliss is death,
for in death there is time,
time to reflect, and to grind
out the details of life,
and to rest
without the crossing breaths
of passion and exhaustion.
This is just the first draft, I hope.
I had some strong philosophical feelings poured into this poem. I really want to make something brilliant out of it, but I know there is work to be done. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.
Thanks,
Christopher.