The maker's loss of breath and that pull in chest, lasted longer than the dying candle's wick. No wonder I saw his creation disappear in the brightest light of flames. So bright yet appeasing, enveloping the mellow light alive, reflecting the life out of say, the death itself. Every minute, every elapse brought in the enchanting memories of time; the time that flame passed by. These shadows of wreck and reflections of it's beauty, recommenced his candle to life, from the ashes of burnt past alive.
Remember that promise the maker made, 'you shall glow till your shadows fade". Seldom do we see a blessing by the maker to it's candle, else from the praxis of quaints we happen to audience, the birth of death in melted bespangle.
Beholding the death of his creation in front of his eyes, I presumed hitherto the maker died a million times (the end of his vocation, his piece of he(art)) Stunned to see the maker's heretofore grief, strong as a lion, he carefully picked up the dead candle, only to watch him reincarnate it with new mold, new life. Looking at the awe of my faith and presumable facade in his grief, he sparkled and whispered 'fresh perception is all that the candle needed, for a life it could'nt see but was meant to be conceded'.
-Your ever so often
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