The Table
by Yakaman
· 27/10/2026
Published 27/10/2026 00:53
A candle burns by its own wick,
its flame licking deeper each second,
and calls it light.
Puddles of defeat pooling at its feet,
but its wick whispers: one more hour.
It grows older and closer to its feet,
Bent by the source it took as kindness.
The table has learnt to hold both warmth and waste.