extinguished

Like the heavy pendulum of a grandfather clock,

he lets his rocking chair sway him back and forth

in the dark, watching carefully as the reflection

of the amber flame in the window flickers ferociously

in the opposed, calm ambiance of his front room.

It leaps and springs so spontaneously with the energy

of a young doe attempting to dodge the many bullets

of her determined hunter. Beneath the wick,

a tall baton of red wax tinted darker than the devil himself

– like frozen blood –

sits proudly on its throne: an antique bottle

of a Saint Emilion Bordeaux, crowned with layer

upon layer of thick drippings of vibrant wax.

Much like the growth rings of a tree, each colour embodies

yet another evening séance of him undulating in his rocking chair,

growing older each time the flickering abates. Once lit,

the heat just below the flame is poignant enough

to scorchingly melt every scrap that surrounds it.

He, solid as cement, remains comfortably in his silence,

moved only by the teeter of his chair, still uninterrupted,

as he listens to the faint crackle of the wick whisper across the room.

The wax wilts and cries down the sides of the tall red beacon,

like pearly beads of sweat rolling down a forehead. With each tear of wax

that manages to trickle a smidgen further down the Bordeaux,

what was once a skyscraper is sluggishly demolished to a cinder brick.

And once the tether approaches the cusp of its reel,

the burning falls into slow motion,

rendering the last few wisps of light the most divine.

Knowing the end is near, he can feel that soon,

he will expire. So, with scarce else to do,

he watches, candle after candle, as the end of his life

by.