Raging Rain

I lay sullen against the window frame.
I stare out the window of my pain.
I have yet to see darker days.
The pitter-patter of my raging rain,
it hits my soul like sharp blades.

There is a candle in my hands.
It is cursed to burn from both ends.
One end smells of my great grandmother’s house.
Smells of cinnamon drifting from her microwave,
she wants the warm scent for when guests come to stay.

I wish those days had not passed away.
A fragrance from my favourite yesterday’s.

The other side smells of the zesty lemon spice of possibilities.
It elicits a feeling of vibrancy.

I light both wicks.
I am mesmerized by the light that shifts.
The shadows cast upon the wall.
Both wicks dance in a battle for it all.

I watch the candle flicker from both ends,
too bright.
As the candle melts away, it lights up the night.
The possibilities and the time gone cold.
It becomes too heavy for me to hold.

My soul and candle start to slip.
As I trip, the candle falls from my futile grip.

As we tumble to the ground.
My house burns down without a sound.

The flames of the phoenix distill me,
only Truth remains.