blackened at their wicks,
but more, they're
more.
Lit and nestled down with prayer,
the wax spilled from there
like tears--their
tears.
I lift them to clean each one
but pause before it's done
and hold, and
hold.
Here are loss, fears, hopes, and aches
so heavy they'll break
unless... there's
less.
As I make these clean and smooth,
please, God: someday soothe
from pain, all
pain.
-GSKaurin, 3/18/2013
