And There Is

The wick floats in the merest of puddle

Soft glow of candlelight waning, dying

The fuel nearly exhausted

A form moves in the muted light

Silent

Casting vague shadows

Miming emotions too profound for words

In the end

As a shadow

Seemingly foetus and giant at the same time

Blinks from existence

There is rest, called sadness by some…

There is rest.