Time

Sitting with my gaze upon the candle,
A sentry of dripping time.
The new falling over the old; replaced.
A towering flow of time and patience.
Each drop plotting its own course,
Never repeating simply crossing.
The colors blend like an old painters palette,
Stained from his sundry works.
Touched and it burns fleetly,
Unevenly, creating anomalous flow,
Leaving scars and pieces to never burn.
Wax pooling at the peak, waiting for its time,
To make its journey down across the past,
To make its own mark upon time.
Coming to an end, knowing it may have but
A short time to illuminate its glory before fading away
By the next, but knowing it has a task,
As another cascades over the edge.
Time passes at the burning of a candle.