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 candlewax

pooling on the paper. . .