A Candle’s Witness

Candles grin quietly in the moonlit hall
all smirks and silent laughter,
like teeth in the susurrus of a conspiratorial dream.
Their wax tears forge rivers of sheen
along the table’s primordial wooden bones,
tributaries of half-whispered regrets
skimming across battered oak.

We watch those liquid ribbons
iridescence with private secrets,
their tiny flickers humming anthems
for weary night birds outside.
In that still, it feels subversive:
like eavesdropping on old ghosts
rehearsing dusty confessions
to an audience of spiders.

At midnight’s whim, vapor tangles in the rafters
a leftover prayer or a suspended giggle?
The shadows can’t decide whether to vanish
or curtsy and bow to the flames.
Candles grin. We watch them grin,
caught in a, , , that tastes like hope
like scorched wicks, broken moonlight,
and something vaguely like peace.