On The Temptation Towards Self Pity
(I'm always in a better mood after having vented like this)
One burns for every insult done to me.
One burns for every insult from my mouth.
One burns for every memory I see:
Regrets that stretch to middle-age from youth.
My candles bleed the very thing they eat;
So, life and passion drip throughout each day.
So grows the waxen ocean at my feet
Of candles spent to keep the Light at bay.
There are no shadows but the ones I’ve made
By every candle raised to tower height:
For every tower, a corresponding shade,
(Thus, for my warmth, I need each tiny light).
And I should snuff them, each and every one:
Just up and blow each wick to kill the flame,
And give the flickering shadows to the Sun,
To melt the silly “pity me’s” of blame.
But hardened wax has glued me to my place,
And I find comfort, fastened to this sea:
The comfort of my old familiar face
That burns in every candle that I see.
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