Softly resting at bay, the wick lies still
The world around it, an ecstasy of flame
Aromas exhaled, for the room to fill
We sit lying in wait perfectly tame
This innocence in violence, the peaceful destruction
The wick lies engulfed in its own flame
Enduring its own personal suffering
To live a life forced into a place and left to burn
We should weep for the wick when our widows weep for our walls
All is just when the authority lies in discretion
How does the wick sleep at night?
How does the wick feel about its stigma
How does the wick feel, knowing it is unloved
How do the unloved not permeate a societal wick
The wick lies within us, for wicks are nothing more than a mirror set afire