There are no limits

to culture, kitsch flourishes --


and it overgrows.

With just a click
                    the wick
absorbs the flame.

A gossamer light
                      that ignites
into a beacon of warmth.

A temple blessed
                       A mess
My own desk.

Wax starts to melt
                       And pelt
Into the ocean of its own creation.

A flame so soothing
                     Hand moving
Page a field of snow.

Enough of this kitsch
                      Flipped switch
A flame confused and sputtering.

The fan spins and calms
                           Resting palm
A flame vanishes.

A ****** thing
When put there in the lamplight
But chosen with the utmost care
Pretend it’s just kitsch
And not some ******* you’d throw away had someone else gifted it.