Racist Candles
Slowness in me,
Because you became the need.
Your eternal flame physically dead,
I can still feel your presence with its etched resurgence.
Of your flame that burns still within me.
Hold on, let go.
Become one, cold as the snow.
Your message shall never die.
Even through one such as me,
Meek; yet sturdy as the tree that held the roots of life.
Spilled from heaven,
Burning from hell.
My life covers all.
I love you, I hate them.
The battling grounds continue to weigh me down!
No matter what, you shall live with ticking clocks.
As I hold you in the scented candle,
On my mantle,
Within my soul full of coal to keep it alive.
Poem by: Tristan Rimbaud
1998 International Society of Poets Washington D.C. Convention
Young Poet of the Year Award
© 1998-2015 New Life Old Soul™