PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The flame was cold to the touch, burning nothing, as if a new ice age was upon us.

My hands stay unscathed though I am running the flame along the palms.

I wish not to be burned by this flame, it is like Goliath and I as David, engulfing my senses.

A sudden combustion of heat entices the nerves in my hands, trying to force its way through the palm as it would a piece of paper.

I pull my hands away and all I feel is cold, a numbness sluggishly creeping through my arms like wildfire through a dew-stricken forest.

The sensation in my arms almost knocked out the nerves, and so I put them under cool water, watching it run glibly off my forearms and down my tortured palms.

And as I relieve the pent up tension in my forearms, I blow out the flame and it wisps away as if to erase from existence,

And it travels as if it were the opposite of the ensconced wax, unveiled to the great sky above.

I watch it travel, and it winks at me, the candle breathing a sigh of relief, escaping from the tyranny of the flame, which held its fate.