The wick was white as purest snow,
The candle, blood scarlet,
She struck the match, certain, and slow,
Tongue touched to lips, to wet,
The sanguine wine never felt shame,
And wax began to melt,
Her fingers danced, played with the flame,
Assessing what she felt,

The tears she cried had been replaced
With resolve toward a new goal,
The pain she knew, an old friend, traced
The outline of her soul.
The molten wet pooled at the base,
And froze as it grew cold,
Now blackened thread, once soft as lace,
Turned hardened, crisp, and old.

The death inside felt dull and thick,
To abdomen and spine,
She felt used, like the wax and wick,
And sipped forgiving wine,
Burgundy peace and clarity,
The small flame, warmth and light
Now, shadows danced jovially,
The chains and pains took flight.

She wondered how she’d been so blind,
Allowed such searing grief
She left the burdens far behind,
The pen, sword of relief.
Her freedom’s proclamation, signed,
She smiled, victoriously.
Settling her heart, with dreams in mind,
“From now on is for me.”


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