With Candles

The candle burned within her hand,

The scent of winter season –

I loved her; she’d no use for me,

But with some reason


The way that I remember things,

I was the one aggrieved;

I wonder now if my recall should really

Be believed

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

Leave a Reply