Gone

Coughing, guttering, flailed down to a pin-point of fire in the darkness.
No oil-well here, wax slowly congealing.
And the fluttering moth, disturbed by his loss, confused in the dark,
Flickers too close and flares again.
A brief moment in time, a nova in the heavens.
As Icarus-like he crashes, smouldered to the floor,
Staggers, circles diminishing, useless wings twitching in vain.
And above him the candle,
Flame replaced by a thin line of smoke,
Arrow-vertical in the breeze-free air;
Until it is exhausted,
And she is gone.