Candles

   The life of a candle is my own.

   With the magic touch of the lantern the wicker lights up and seconds later it is consumed thread by thread in fire. Then the blaze slows- the wicker is completely immersed in flames, but it doesn’t spread with the same youthful alacrity. It is in its prime; the white expanse of perfumed wax is yet untouched.
 
   Then beads of moisture mar the perfect plane of existence and the edge of the tiny life rope begins to fade away into a dull ashen color, visible even through the bright capricious tongue of fire. It’s full of brute vitality and yet… the promise of it fading away is already gnawing at the gorgeous whisp. And around it the molten crystalline clear pool is growing ever larger, the beautiful virgin white is covered with specks of moist reflections of light, like a rose in full bloom.

   It will continue to eat away at the heart of wax, dimming as it goes deeper.

   The flame will not fade for some time- unless someone blows it out.