Poem #30

I lit a candle beside my window,

Believing it to be aromatic;

I wanted milk-honey stirred with willow,

Or whatever scent these days calms the erratic.

 

Glumly I report the candle scentless,

Less scented than air by expectation,

My sniff swindled as by an unfinished

Sentence, denied outright its ticketed ration.

 

Yet I left the traitorous wax ablaze,

Framed in the window like an earnest prayer;

I suppose it seemed improper to raze

A wish for the dying in olfactory care.

2 thoughts on “Poem #30”

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