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existential dread poetry, candle/flame imagery 

the pressure from outside tugs a guttering candle flame, hastening the drips of wax that chase one another to be lost on the ground below.

what is a candle when the wick and wax are burned away?

does the candle become the smell of paraffin char, the ribbons of carbon vapor? Does it become the clarified drippings splattered useless and flat?

Or is it just the memory of extinguished light?

does it matter what it is?

does it matter that it's gone?

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