Notebook Poetry: The Candle

To the wick, this candle burns
waning
into the collapsing night
it’s a lonesome orb that glitters
and flutters
like a captured pixie
trapped behind the walls
of a glass bottle,
an empty phial.

This star-prick, a singular light
against the matte black
of darkest
firmament, is devoid
of celestial bodies;
an errant mote of dust
the dance
of an entranced moth.

The room is still,
almost quiet
and not a single
cosmic
breath
should stir
but
a faint
rustle
of leaves
outside
a distant window.