Mirrored Fires

It is most frequent when my eyes-
They glare at tumultuous flame,
White maiden, with mournful cries
When shall I see strong light again?
Your wick it strains like heaviest bough,
And you wax descends, like wrinkled dress,
And hostile winds all around you blow,
Let me bring such winds to humble arrest.
My maiden, you stand dressed in white,
Not draped in orange coloured flame,
For white it is light, not darkest night,
Let us challenge convention once again.
I see but light, not bright as before,
In airless chambers, I leave you to rest,
I find not heat in your hottest core,
For it is in black you now stand dressed.