Lost Art

Tuning out everything Except the sounds Of burning candles And the flow of black ink Above a notebook page Distinct sizzles As the flames consume wicks And letters converge upon the blue lines Is life anything like Writing in the dark? The sun has set The bright beam of the blue pen light Allows poetic listener to record All forms of fire music, allegro or acappella The harsh scratch of the wrong word The soft sneaky spring of a closing sentence The almost inaudible sighs of orange hot wax The up tempo sputters of flickering light against glass