Candle
2005-09-20 3:37 p.m.
As a man dancing alone.Whether in a pasture or Times Square made no difference.
The rhythm was his own pulse.
The inspiration, nothing less than existence itself.
Rising from a pile of failure and burning brighter,
as a mute would scream when freed from his own silence.
His flailing arms reached towards the heavens
as the voice of the poorest girl in a choir.
He enjoyed being because he knew nothing else.
The pedestal of matches now nothing but ash.
With all the wax evaporated, he proudly laid to rest.
His last breath, a venerable cloud of smoke.
Unafraid of his own demise,
with the majesty of a good life.