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Tuyet Anh Jun 20
People count the years
by candles and quiet tears.
The twenties, they say,
are when we wait
for the first cry
from a miracle
just learning to breathe.

But some of us, like me,
never quite grow up.
Peter Pan weeps
each time the rain brushes my shoulders.
I come alive again
only in fleeting moments,
like the string that’s slipped
from a flying kite.

Just days ago,
that child stirred again —
flickering like a candle,
reaching toward her teacher,
a man with nothing
but quiet grace,
yet rich in the kind of ways
that make you believe in yourself.

She longed to share
a small bright win,
a spark like a candle’s tip —
just enough to set a heart aglow
beneath the gaze
that once gave her
presence
when the world turned away.

For the first time,
I wanted to tell
someone —
so fully —
like a child
unafraid to confess,
trusting there’d be
an empty seat,
and eyes that wait.

I once thought,
on the day I might break,
as wax melts
over a birthday cake —
would God have mercy
and let me return
as my teacher’s daughter?

But now I know —
even the most beautiful dream
can turn to dust
if we forget to hold the present
while it’s still here.
Even something lovelier
can still feel
like a passing crush —
picked up with wonder,
and dropped
when wonder fades.
From The Desk Where Mr. C Sat
Damocles Apr 28
The dark reaches past the veil
As lanky tenebrous nails trail
Down pallid moribund flesh,
Aghast of a heavy rattled breath
Crimson paints over charcoal knuckles
As death reaches to ***** the light.
Dark thoughts are intrusive
Immortality Apr 21
And at last—
the candle realized
it had burnt
by the thread,
it had kept safe
inside its heart.

But even in death,
as it watched the thread
burn along—
longed to protect it.
well, the candle was either the greatest fool or the truest lover
Arii Mar 18
Sometimes I feel like
I’m stuck in a dark cage
With nothing for company
But a tiny, tiny flame.

It gives off
a comforting warmth.
It’s nice having company,
But still, I am torn.

I fear for the day
It’ll extinguish in a second or half.
I would feel not but sorrow,
For I do not have

A lighter, or a matchbox
To bring back its light.
What can I do,
If not, beg to keep it alight?
Zoe G Feb 9
They give me a candle to walk
Tell me, march!
Your light will pave the way for the lost and the mourning,
But what path of my own?

Selfish! They jeer.
Erred, you have, strayed away.
Thinking for yourself, for yourself.
Only.

They give me a candle to walk.
Tell me, halt!
Little children come past, with the lost and the mourning,
To warm their hands and souls.

Thank you! They call,
And wish me good health,
While their own sinks and withers.
Thinking not for themselves, never themselves.

I light my own candle and walk.
Tell myself, go on!
This light has yet to warm myself,
But for the lost and the mourning?
I wrote this two years ago and found it while going through old files, I think it has better place here.
Regret melts slow,
dripping from the side.
It feels like skin being tugged against,
the impression left from
my hand to yours.
The anticipation of being patient
burns and flickers,
excitedly proud to be included.

Your back, the wick that stands straight,
slowly curving,
stretching, releasing tension.
Your legs wrapped in mine.
If you were to blow too hard,
the flame would whoosh,
leaving nothing but a puddle.
The people we were
staring, looking at the mess.

The rest of my strength
supports your arch,
the curled wick that's grown tired
against my chest.
No matter how you lay,
I am comfortable in your wild stretch.
Sleep surrounding both of us—
I have your back, your heart.
The crisp edges of your hair tangled
On my head

The smoke of desire soots and breathes,
dried in a puddle of wax
wax
as i watch the candle burn
the wick disintegrates
wonder when it'll be my turn
to join the invertebrates
distant echo repeats
the sun sets ahead
the oak roots meet
the foot of my bed
a collection of scents
for only $9.99
down the aisle i went
for the three hundredth time
melt into a mold
a mindless distraction
an umbrella, rose gold
with hydraulic retraction
collect ash and soot
from time spent waiting
for a longing fresh look
at the end's very beginning
a battery powered candle
with translucent white plastic
burns surprisingly well
poison fumes are fantastic
i set it all on fire
and watched the polymers melt
i heard a copper choir
the burning heat i felt
i can't get too close
lest i run the risk
of singing my own nose
or encoding a compact disc
inspired by a time i was lost in a candle aisle.
Nikola Dominis Dec 2024
Last night,
at your grave,
without tears and flowers,
one already spent candle
lit up in late hours.
It’s a sad sight,
casting melancholy shadows,
last night, on your grave,
one candle to its end it goes.
And I wouldn’t swear
it wasn’t stolen,
perhaps placed there
by a human shadow with soul in,
or maybe someone tragic,
a wanderer from the margins.
When I think about it,
I feel a sense of longing.
Do they wander here,
and as the last flame will be andel,
it sadly extinguishes,
the flame of a spent candle.
And it’s as if with it,
from memory, it vanished,
when the last flame of candle
ceased to be banished.
Last night,
at your grave,
without tears and flowers,
one already spent candle
lit up in late hours.
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