Nirvana

A candle starts out tall,

leaking wax and sinking,

shrinking, burying itself

in a puddle when the flame

falls with less than a hiss,

sending up a brief stream

of smoke from the blackened

wick.

 

A fuse crawls along the ground

like a winding snake,

hissing like piss hitting 

a red-hot ember that screams

with steam.  Like life,

it flies far too fast.  It longs

like an overworked heart

to explode.

 

Water left in an ice cube

tray expands and freezes

over time, forming a grid

of crystalline jewels,

slippery diamonds that melt

as they plop in a glass

of water, tinkling gently.

 

Where is the flame that floats

unattached like a tiny, self-

contained sun?  Who can keep

the fire that never goes out,

burning in a tapered ball

all by itself?  

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