every poet, needs a candle
softness to record their ramble
while ink flows like a scandle
unto pages that beckon stain
words that bantor, others bicker
some blush, yet a few they snicker
by light that lives, between flickers
tamed wildly by the poets game
wield for me, a line or two
show me all that you can do
with candle light and written hue
that also breathes of moments shared
raspberry tea to tickle taste
morning rain to touch the face
scents recalled as souls are laced
so undeniably and naturally paired
listen close within your being
where imagination is so freeing
angels guiding and foreseeing
hand in hand from shadows keep
follow light that gestures you
feel the bleed of scribes tattoo
upon the canvas, demanding true
til the time your spirit sleeps
let the light, dance on your eyes
that close, letting dreams inside
caring not, for 'hows' nor 'whys'
safely watching til slumber shakes
so that you may light again
wick that weeps for your pen
let it drip, with abysmal zen
then...think of me, as you wake
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