The wax island

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.




Sea of red.

Lacking in tidal waves,

But plentiful with


And pillars

Of wax that

Almost never remain


 (While seamlessly mimicking mountains)


Congealed continent

Inhabited by so many

Misplaced snakes,

Is only ever allowed to expand

And manifest,

Within its own confines,

 If the




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.

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