In a bleak, dark room,
Sits the candle in the weary gloom.
It didn't see any reason
To light the empty space.
The abyss whispered, "Lighten up;
You got nothing to lose."
"I've got my wicks to lose," said the candle.
But a pressure, a fright, it cannot handle.
As the darkness smirked, bared its fangs,
And—fantasizing about the candle's tears—thirsted:
"Ignite it up You got nothing to lose."
"I've got my wax to lose."
"Do you?" Emptiness said.
It was about to be swallowed by the void itself,
But its instinct kicked in:
Giving up, and burning within.
Bursting into tears,
But not with a crying face;
It was a fractured demeanour.
Not out of pain—nothing here felt sane—
It gave a blank, pale look to existence.
The time froze for an instance.
Things entered stasis,
Midst the laughter between the flame, the abyss and the emptiness,
The candle was in deafening paralysis.
.
.