My Candle Burns,
In a pottery cup,
Black and gold,
Everything I know and love,
Picks up and flows into the world,
It's the softest cup,
I can sense each grain of mud,
When I touch it,
I sense its story,
I feel its history,
I reach out to it,
It reaches back,
The pottery cup,
It listens as my fingers tell my story,
And the fire,
That lays on the wax,
Doesn't threaten me,
Stay away,
I can touch it,
And it will not burn me,
I can love it,
And it will love me,
My Candle.
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