A short poem
The flame has no agenda. Not at all. She just hangs on to the wick with her feet and heats the softening wax that feeds her.
The wax has no agenda either. She raises her melting wings to the dark, and weeps herself into the tableau of past deeds and choices around her.
When I’m sane, I try to be good, to secure my feet near the wick, to stand up straight in the center and shed light in the darkness.
When I’m whole, I remember that I’m already good.
That my wings fuel the flame, and die by it, and the heat shows the way, and the darkness pockets it, and no one is the wiser. The mess all around me is my sacred, fragile, selfish, generous, damage- doing, precious short, short
life.