My light is a feeble thing.
It almost sputters and dies.
The hand that shelters me
is my only hope for life.
The extent of my fuel
is not even a finger’s length;
nor my dim, flickering flame
able to scatter the pitch of night.
In a moment, I shall be gone.
Too many times, it has almost been so.
Were it not for His sustaining breath,
His keeping the winds at bay,
I would have already left.
I am a poor, broken thing:
a parody of light.
I weep to see the Sun,
beneath Whose brilliance I fade
as if never having been.
Now He lets me go.
I fall, my screams a
guttering stacatto of flashes
of almost light…
And land, upon a leaf –
a dry, old leaf, within a forest
whose woods have seasoned
over thousands of years: ages, cycles.
In but moments,
the roar of a deafening blaze
shall be its only sound.
It almost sputters and dies.
The hand that shelters me
is my only hope for life.
The extent of my fuel
is not even a finger’s length;
nor my dim, flickering flame
able to scatter the pitch of night.
In a moment, I shall be gone.
Too many times, it has almost been so.
Were it not for His sustaining breath,
His keeping the winds at bay,
I would have already left.
I am a poor, broken thing:
a parody of light.
I weep to see the Sun,
beneath Whose brilliance I fade
as if never having been.
Now He lets me go.
I fall, my screams a
guttering stacatto of flashes
of almost light…
And land, upon a leaf –
a dry, old leaf, within a forest
whose woods have seasoned
over thousands of years: ages, cycles.
In but moments,
the roar of a deafening blaze
shall be its only sound.