She lights a candle,
the controlled flame at her fingertips.
She watches, as
the flame dances with the rhythm
of her breath.
She listens to the
sharp cuts of
its flickering light.
She wonders to what
harmful extent this
flame could
possibly reach.

She tests how
dangerous its
playful shadows
could become.
She dips her finger
in the pool of wax
that has gathered
beneath the flame.

There is a slight
sting before the
wax hardens.
What could the
consequences be when
playing with fire?
The same fire that
has killed so many.
The same fire that
destroys cities and
defiles homes.
Not the fire in
ones heart when
they fall in love.
Not the fire in
ones eyes when they
fulfill their purpose.

The fire that turns
wood to ash,the fire
that turns a home
into homeless, the
fire that turns a
family into an orphan.

She considers this,
until a figurative
holocaust burns
these thoughts.
She cautiously licks
her fingers and pinches
the flame of the candle
in front of her.

The soft smoke
floats upward towards
her unwilling nostrils.
The soothing smell
of lavender suddenly
becomes repugnant.
The innocent pinching
of her face is met
by the single tear
trickling through the
tension in her cheeks.