Flame led by Grace. 1

Once, I stood as fire, Burning bright and warm, Filling empty rooms with glow and hope, Full of innocence, full of purity. Through the cracked screen, The wind blew in, uninvited, Disturbing the once peaceful glow, Shattering dreams so pure, The bright glow dimmed, The innocence stolen, The purity faded in silence. The candle grew fond of the wind, Made peace with its unfriendly blow, Unaware it fed the flame to die slow. Every blow of wind brought a flash of pleasure, Yet the candle melted faster in guilt. It bent each day beneath the shame it carried, Still believing it ruled its own glow. Addiction? No—not the candle, Just a slow drift from its source. But deep within the wax, a whisper grew, Hoping for the day the wind would die. Each flicker, a cry for freedom, Smoke rising—a prayer to the Maker: “Please… release the melting candle.” Six years—still the wind haunts the room, Its chilly breath, a nightmare to the flame. But the candle can take no more. The wax hardens, slow but sure— Now ready, to resist the wind, The struggle is real— A cycle of falling and rising. Yet the wax grows stronger With every cruel blow of wind.