At the flaming candles stare,
four in the middle and eight beside.
Burning on the nightstand there,
I wonder where their souls reside.

In single motion the wild flames burn,
their warmth reaches over to lean on me.
My eyes blink and tear, so my head must turn,
the smoke fills my head from burnt out three.

And at these three I lend my gaze,
to study the remaining red-rose flame.
To my surprise they're still ablaze,
in different form, yet the fire's the same.

At the flaming candles stare,
four in the middle and five beside.
Burning on the nightstand there,
I wonder where their souls reside.

The three I've lost still keep me there,
for it seems to me they're still alive.
Then these three candles, and one more pair,
finally fade, while seven survive.

Seven remain, burning bright as day,
unaware that their deaths draw nigh.
Each glow and shine like the sun's golden rays,
as the wax smothers two with a heavy sigh.

At the flaming candles stare,
four in the middle and one beside.
Burning on the nightstand there,
I wonder where their souls reside.

One candle smolders and curls into ash,
the others jokingly spew and sputter.
Another chokes off, but rebounds with a flash,
its brush with death a silent utter.

This leaves the center four, smiling bright,
the smoke from the others whispering by.
Each burns brighter with glorious might,
impressing its neighbor before it dies.

At the flaming candles stare,
four in the middle and none beside,
Burning on the nightstand there,
I wonder where their souls reside.

One, two, and then one more,
with a dying gasp three die away.
With a silent cry they find the door,
which begins a new life, another day.

Alone stands the victor, proud but meek,
champion above the other eleven.
Finally it fades, tired and weak,
and I watch its soul ascend to heaven.