spitfarThe candle is lit upside-down, turned once over,
flickering for good,
one black or white
wind can spit far enough through the window
to smother me,
one sun can see the way I sway
like the dying flame,
spent on myself, darkness at my sides,
bending a soft, yellow man to death.
...and I open another window,
for fresh, dry afterlives
being stripped through the breezes
that change all direction.


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