Cauteritzing Candlelight [poem]

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cauterizing_candlelight

That single candleflame
contains more honesty
than I have ever seen.
She burns this way and that
(though kindled by another hand)
and as I look from where I longingly am sat,
I realise that flame can only burn
because there is supplied
a generous quantity of wax.

That single candleflame
which burns so bright
and waits obediently
to be snuffed out each night
(no more to shine its flickeringsome light)
is me. It, too, is also you and every we.
Until we see ourselves as temporary
flames brought into burningness
by powers which are more than chance
(for we are here to dance the tune
the lamplighter has given us to find)
we’ll not illuminate the room
in which we dwell and will not tell
where all the many doors are placed
(which lead in kind to other realms)
nor in which direction we should face
to see the sunrise in the windowpane
and thus will have to feign our walk
and feel the walls off which we’ll ricochet
like random cannonballs no matter
how much we can talk-the-talk
(the only thing we do with ease)
imagining we’re so advanced and bold
(when all we do is parrot what we’re told,
make out we’re fine while inwardly we freeze!).

That single candleflame
which burns upon my desk
has festered bothly like a sore
and as a guide before my eyes.
I’ve noticed if I lift it high
it shows me far more clearly:
why the table’s there
about what things my heart should care
why I weep to see that man each day upon the stairs
the traps by which one’s soul can be ensnared
the secret [awe-ful] meaning of threadbare
why I no more need to hug my teddybear
that it isn’t really rude to stare
which parts of me have fallen into disrepair
the nowhereness of everywhere
how honesty and truth are rare
why all the nicest girls I’ve known have been called Claire
how in this world no justice reigns and nothing’s fair
the fact I value faces over breasts or derriere
how almost everything is fake or self-delusion or just plain hot air
why I’d rather stand than set my ass down in a chair
what would really happen if each boy and girl became a millionaire
why my words and music I so love to share
the pointlessness of misery, gloom or sadness and despair.

That single candleflame
which mesmerizes me
(as does all fire or flame)
has taught me not to trust
a single thing I see
for nothing is the same
as what you think it is
and nothing’s what it seems
until we amplify the light —
the sight of which will shock us
with a laugh so loud and long
that we’ll discover soon the song
to which we’re meant to dance
(remember how I said above
that we should find the tune?)
and which will show the non-hormonal
meaning of the most misunderstood,
misused, abused and hyper-cauterizing
simple word
of
love

 

© Alan Morrison, 2015

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