The flame will only ever become a trail

of brief whispered smoke

if you extinguish it yourself, when others

try to put the wick out, all that happens

is after they have gone and busted your balls

for not using the electric light at your command

that the match, red faced but saluting

the moment in readiness as it turns to sulphur,

strikes back against the grain,

and lights the candle once more,

sparks life, albeit closeted and in a world of

writhing shadows upon the green backed walls,

romance lays still, romance

begins to beat slowly,

fuelled by that initial shadow

and as the wax runs over and into the pot below,

romance is but a prelude to the wick

burning brightly;

once candle power is enough to see

in a room that has been

in the dark too long.

Ian D. Hall 2016