You talked of candles

burning brightly and yet

as I sit here feeling uncomfortable

in my own skin

and the remains of a once good life

laying in pieces

time and time again

as I struggle with the infinite cosmic joke

played out, I want

to take the light-bulb wannabe, the shadow of a

sun ray and gently snuff it out,

I want to impale the candle

on to the head of my own hidden anxiety

and I would very much like to

never see a new dawn take hold over the rusting Iron man

closest to the alien like shore line, ever again.

 

I still would like the dawn to rise

on all that is good and trust worthy,

who would not want to see their friends flourish,

abound with a skip

to good fortune and for me in time to smile broader

than anyone else as I think of them,

but not at the expense of other’s misery,

caught in the spin cycle

of a setting not of their choosing,

not handed a bunch of flowers

that makes them sneeze and become a withered

reminder of

ageing

and self-satisfied grotesque ownership

for a flower that should have bloomed in the soil.

 

My candle

has burned long and fruitful and yet the temptation

always finds a way to just below the surface

to reach out

for the flickering flame and gently put two fingers up

against it and squeeze it so it shines no more.

I was told it was a selfish act,

an act of barbarism, but who would stop me?

Who really would stop the act of my fingers being singed

and the smell of burning flesh sealing my fate,

no one can hold a candle to you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015