The Candle in the Corridor
A memory carved against the silence of years
I was young when the candle faltered there
its flame trembling as though afraid to live
The corridor stretched long a narrow vein of shadow
and every step drew me deeper into a silence
that breathed from the walls like a secret withheld
I recall the sound, yet it was absence
a calmness so heavy it shaped my stride
as though the unseen gathered near
to follow my solitary passage
Even now the memory returns fractured unfinished
half invention half wound
There was a figure or so my mind insists
pale around the darkness still behind the waning light
its eyes a hollow brightness I could neither meet nor deny
Did I move forward Did I remain
The vision folds each time I revisit
changing form unfurling strange
Some nights it surfaces again
that candle with its faltering glow
and I walk the corridor as though summoned
by the grief it safeguards
No threshold only an endless narrowing
where shadows gather and watch
I tell myself it was nothing
yet that nothing has a voice that endures
It speaks without language
it lingers without consent
a mark faintly carved in the marrow of recall
So, I write again and again
that corridor that candle
Perhaps I invented the figure
perhaps I did
Memory may fracture
but it survives by its own design
It returns me always
to the trembling wick
to the unseen presence
to myself a child fixed in an eternal pause
wandering toward a glow
that threatens extinction
but never fades
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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More stories from Tim Carmichael and writers in Poets and other communities.
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There is always a cost. Not the dramatic kind people imagine, not the cinematic sacrifice that earns applause, but the quiet, relentless toll that transformation demands. The cost begins long before you rise and continues long after you land. It threads itself through every choice, every boundary, every refusal to return to the version of yourself that once made survival look effortless.
By Elisa Wontorcik6 days ago in Poets
Comments (4)
Some haunting memories here, perhaps. Very nice imagery with the candle and the eternal flame as the only light in the corridor
This reads like a poetic story. It leans into the metaphors. The corridor the candle, as if the poem needed it to breathe. The calmness shaping your stride was such a surreal experience. ‘Half invention, half wound’ you described the faults in the passage of memory really well. It always seems worse than what it was, especially when allowed to fester like this. Hmm. Summoned by the grief it safeguards. So the light you almost cannot trust. The corridor the candle almost taking us into… what seems like a sleep paralysis. Maybe the memories and the pain, the trauma turned into their own form. It really does seem that the child is fixed into an eternal pause. This was fantastic and deeply moving, Tim ♥️🤗
This was so deep! Loved your poem!
“Memory may fracture, but survives by its own design” is a great line. Such a great encapsulation of how it works. Well done!