The burnt wick.

This individual beacon.

Surrounded by scores of

Misguided  molecules

Stuck between

The fluidity of motion,

And the

Immobilizing qualities of quicksand.

Caught in the crosshairs.

Of viscosity

But not yet mounted,

(Or assembled)

In some amusing museum.

Or laboratory.

This

Fragrant,

Salt-less

Sea of red.

Lacking in tidal waves,

But plentiful with

 Peaks

And pillars

Of wax that

Almost never remain

Permanent.

 (While seamlessly mimicking mountains)

This,

Congealed continent

Inhabited by so many

Misplaced snakes,

Is only ever allowed to expand

And manifest,

Within its own confines,

 If the

Casual

&

Carnal,

Ebb & flow

Of the cautious flame,

And the simultaneous

Tides it  will provide,

Coupled  with a

 Succulent permeation,

(Reminiscent of apples)

Isn’t extinguished entirely.