the candle

At night, when I'm alone in my chambers,
I cast my eyes on a brass picture frame
(It stands on my solid bureau of thought)
and I must say, it sits there by itself.

But, when I light a candle, it danses.
The flames dart across the glaring portrait,
and the framework's filled with life.

As the flame flicks (for it's dying you see),
I scrawl these frenzied words on worthless pages.
The frame then 'proaches and nods at my matchbook.

Cast as our father, I retire the matches;
It crawls back to the edge of my bureau,
to sulk and sob and wait till it's next danse.