The Candle That Burned and Dripped Pure Blood

The Candle That Burned and Dripped Pure Blood

It stood in silence, wax white and thin,

A fragile ghost where fire had been.

The flame did dance, a wicked gleam,

As shadows twisted through a dream.

It wept in red, like veins that cried,

Each drop a secret, petrified.

The scent of sorrow filled the air,

As whispers crawled from nowhere there.

The room was cold, the night was long,

Its dripping sang a haunted song.

A lonely soul, unseen, confined,

The candle flickered, half-alive, half-blind.

Each drop that fell was time undone,

Each burn a breath, each spark the sun.

It bled for love, it burned for pain,

And never would it light again.

Upon the wall, the stains grew deep,

The kind that never fade or sleep.

The wax had shaped a weeping face,

That seemed to mourn the human race.

Its eyes were hollow, yet they shone,

As if they knew what death had known.

A heart that burned till it decayed,

Then vanished softly in the shade.

The air grew thick, the room stood still,

As time bent slowly to its will.

Each flicker spoke of things once dear,

Each crackling spark a ghost of fear.

It told of nights that would not end,

Of lovers lost, of hearts that bend.

Of souls who begged for warmth, for peace,

And found no flame to grant release.

The wax ran down in heavy tears,

Through echoes of forgotten years.

It whispered low, I burn for you,

For all you dream, for all you do.

The blood-red pools began to gleam,

Alive within a nightmare dream.

And through the dark, a shape was made,

Of something holy, yet decayed.

By dawn, the candle’s breath had died,

Yet still the blood refused to hide.

It formed a heart upon the floor,

A sign of love, or something more.

And though the room turned cold and bare,

A presence lingered, always there.

The kind that watches, never speaks,

Yet warms the soul when daylight leaks.

And some still say on nights of rain,

When walls remember every pain,

A single candle burns in red,

To mourn the lost, to wake the dead.

It bleeds in silence, never still,

It burns because it always will.

For love and death are both the same,

One endless, blood-soaked, ghostly flame.