Candles

The Candle on the Table.

Night wind caresses the candle.
Flickering, it lights the table.
Defiant against the situation.
Burns without hesitation.
Wax slowly drips,
life slowly slips.

The flame dominant,
burning brightly in the night.
The flame is prominent,
charismatically bright.
The flame is current,
existing in the winter’s blight.

Pooling wax drowns the wick,
in the end, it does the trick.
Used up until it melts,
candles burn themselves out.

Produce light till they die,
they’ll get dimmer overtime.
Never says goodbye,
and leaves shadows behind.

I thought I saw her today.

The Ghost of Utopia

Face melts like paint running down the canvas,
brown irises turn green, no wait - they were green to begin with.
Chubby cheeks melt, like fat off a bone. Slobber dripping down from the
hyena’s mouth mounting her.