Candle

Why do we act like we are a firework rocket,
like we shall die as soon as we are born,
racing all the way, aiming for the sky,
ever running in the race, forever,
when we have a lifetime to go,
a time as long as a lifetime,
maybe we can savour it,
or maybe rest along,
for death is later,
a life later,
savour.

Why do we feel like we are a bursting cracker,

like some magic would turn our lives over,

in a blink of an eye from rags to riches,

believe that we can change at once,

ignoring our inertial imperfection,

knowing it is hard to change,

return to our messy selves,

disappointed much,

change slower,

a tortoise,

forever.

Why do we try to live like the neon lights shine,
ever bright to be noticed by every passer by,
ever constant without any ups and downs,
smooth out every such randomness,
that the fluttering life throws at us,
forgetting that random pulses,
of emotions and events,
make human lives,
like your life,
or my life,
life.

Why do we not see that we are naught but a candle,

flickering to the playful nature's slightest breezes,

growing brighter from birth to death, glowing,

dying out when our wax runs out, lifetime,

dancing to our nature's unpredictability,

and that we could die at any point,

if only a bad hand would swish,

or a witch would wish,

we are all candles,

burning to die,

flickering,

living.