DNR

I sit in the shadows
my pen scratches without direction,
searching for a word within a pile
of discarded and broken letters

The stinging scent of sulphur
is a momentary curse
before the candlelight
alters my pupils

As my light puddles into wax
my failure to find
the right word
shines brightly

my thoughts extinguish themselves
quietly disappearing into an old,
almost forgotten missive
just here - under the matches.
.