As rough patches fill with
endless waste,
an unlit candle appears.
Wax drips
from the cold wick and
ponders its next move.

Sliding down
the barren hill;
this is a wasteland.

While winds blow and halt
to stops only to begin again,
paper flies.
In circles and wisps,
words are elevated
off the pages.

Meanwhile, the candle of cold air
sits dripping, shrinking;
this is a wasteland.

The sand is picked up
by cloud’s gusts and
pelts all objects.
In fluid motion,
light gets erased by nature’s
bright colors.

All at once,
trees fall;
this is a wasteland.

Again, the candle shrinks
as the top diminishes
into rubble.
A fate awaits
the broken patch of land
that once accompanied it.

Who is to say
that the path of the land
lays in the path of the candle?
Although it is true
that grass will still grow;
this is a wasteland.

The candle,
on its last strike,
is still unlit.
Cold and forgotten,
it rests
at last.

A small stream of smoke
rises from its resting place;
this was a wasteland.



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