The votive of this sleepless night
(Only peeked at by the moon
As she hurriedly turns away
Across the sky and seeks to hush
The giddy stars into a somber mirthless march
Until dawn can come to hide the sight
By her greater light)
Is left untouched consuming the wick
And puddling the wax
That held it fast to the touch of flame
And would not let it shirk until spent of strength
The wax drips away from the smoking martyr, ashamed.
The light, bright against the dark,
Is guttered by day,
The shapeless wax is trod upon.
The wick, she is no more.
RootsRewound 