The Omen

While sitting in the parlor of our old Victorian home, I watched a group of candles burning bright. The tiny flames would hypnotize me, dancing to and fro, I scarce could let their flickering out of sight. Contemplation found its way into my tired mind, As time would drift away into the night. The tarnished candelabra, proudly perched upon the hearth, Displayed a row of seven candlesticks. I’d notice, on occasion, as a draft would wander by, A few could barely hide their little wicks, And as I sat there staring, one would finally flicker out… To sit with me and watch the other six. Seemingly prophetic, I would ponder on for hours, This seemed to mean some great important thing. Could the candles somehow correlate to life itself - Though merely sticks of wax surrounding string? Their lives began the instant they were lighted, with no way To know just what their destinies would bring. I would learn no explanation as to why but one Would lose its struggle with a common wind. All were burning strong and bright and yet, this only one Would not survive to know the standard end! Only one would stand extinguished…somehow only one Could not afford the light the rest would spend. This seems true with people, too…for none of us can know Just how long our life is going to be. No one really knows how well their candle flame will fare… How many gusts of wind that it will see… And I became concerned about the one that flickered out. Could it, somehow - correlate - to me?