As I number these poems (which are apparently going to be more than 100 if anyone is counting) and repost them, some comments seem appropriate to some.
Candles and love, the name, without the poem afterwards, conjures up images of candles providing the only light in a bedroom. A beautiful woman rendered even more beautiful by the light of the candles and the feelings of affection, and perhaps lust. I can see the skin, looking more brown than it is in real life in the magical light of burning rope and wax which somehow makes the time more real.
Perhaps it is these type of visions that plague me and have kept me so far from writing the funny little essays I promise myself. And perhaps nothing is so much like fire as love as this poem reflects.
Love is a candle that lights as it burns
when it goes out it leaves darkness
There are many ways to extinguish love
it may be drowned, ignored or run out of fuel
it may burn out of control
consuming everything in its path
it may grow to surround one life
and may never light up another
it can bring all the colors of the spectrum
or leave everything barren all in its wake
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