Lights in Stones
When one achieves such an absurdly long existence as I have, you find yourself observing lives like candles. A spark of fire burns through a white wick and ends as a black spec sitting above pooling wax. The red-orange light fades, cools, the wax settles to the ground. The lengths of the wicks are strings of fate, the wax is flesh, the flame is the soul’s connection. However, the soul may fade before the candle is burned down. What shall become of the rest?
Should the spark be alighted once more?