They stand still,
bent in silence,
bodies of wax once trembling with light.
Now the wicks, blackened and frail,
curve like spines under the weight of memory.

No heat remains,
only the shape of what once was warmth.
They starve not for wax,
but for pupose-
for the simple beauty of being allowed to burn.

In the corner,
they resemble people-
those who once glowed with laughter,
who lit rooms with hope
before life turned cold and windless.
Before their fires were taken.

The world passed them by,
forgot their names,
left them to harden
in a stillness too heavy to carry.
Grief settled into their edges
like dust on windows never opened.

We call them candles,
but they are mirrors-
showing us how easy it is to forget
that even a small flame
can hold back the dark.