The struggle
to keep a candle alight on a grave –
cupping the flame with careful hands,
shielding it from the restless wind,
straightening it,
centering it,
as though balance could bargain with time.
We watch it closely,
anxious for its small, trembling life,
willing it to endure
a little longer.
While six feet beneath,
an extinguished life lies still –
its duty complete,
burnt out after illuminating the world,
melted into silence,
beyond every effort
we now so carefully give
to a fragile flame.
And still,
we fight the wind
for something already lost,
as if the flame could stay,
as if the light could last.
The truth rests quietly below –
undisturbed,
unchanging,
final.
Yet above,
we go on arranging, preserving, pretending…
as though anything we touch
was ever meant
to stay.
~R✨