The waxing and waning of me

I am this candle,

and I am burning myself

at both ends.

I am allowing the consumption of me by everyone else,

so I don't consume myself.

My wax is stubborn and resistant,

My flame is self igniting,

And rises theatrically and comically,

Again and again, like one of those joke candles that cannot be put out by rain or wind or exhaustion or insurmountable odds,

But rises furiously to claim the bait it is taunted by, the means to its end just out of comprehensive reach.

My limits are tangled and tattered and still yet, undivisable,

unquenchable, this thirst for the dissolution of my waning wax.

I respect these flames and know their power intentionally means no harm.

It is just doing what fire does,

and I am melting for it like the wax that I am.

Until one day I realize that I am formless until I choose to exercise my power over the fire,

and form myself beneath its beholden command.