Paean for the Broken

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.