He lit a candle in a cave untouched through years,
where only photo book reminders colored the sides.
Written down in the margins of coy messages mailed between desks,
something resonated in the angles and the threes.
Even if the letters shrink in the knocking of aging,
you’re cuddled up near the ghost of an ash pile’s warmth.
It was a thought prepared to take up arms when a mind rejected.
Now all that rests is a heart dotted with wax stains.
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 