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by Eliot
Rated: E · Poetry · Mystery · #463188
A candle at her table says much

It was
as if
there burned
a candle at her table,
precursor of all light:
an autumn evening sun,
the private glow of rooms,
phosphorescent earth
ancient, pleading starlight.

It was
as if
her finger
touched in wax
dropped petal after petal
summarily at her table
where blossoms seldom settle.

It was
as if
this flame
drew Psyche
out of breath,
hovering at her table,
bright intimate of death.

It was
as if
he begged
of her new life
from what was ashen,
and would not reach for heat
that he might wait for passion.

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