The Words

drip. . . onto the page like Candle Wax

effortlessly flowing

from an endlessly burning wick.

The flame of a soul too full

to keep all inside

and so it drips. drips. drips. . .

A creamy blood red

forming puddles of truth.

Sometimes. . .  honesty scalds

but always is it better than the alternative:

A fresh smooth candle

         never knew passion

         never knew life quite so well

As my Candle Wax

pooling on the paper. . .