A tiny flame on a bent wick,
balancing like a piece of gold and some magic trick.
Ghost-puppets dance across the wall,
then dip their shoulders, sway, and fall.
Hot wax dribbles slowly down,
lava on the mountainside of a honeycomb brown.
It buzzes where cold wind squeezes through
between poorly sealed panes that billow like they've had too much brew.
A jack-o'-lantern lurks outside, rotund with pumpkin teeth agape,
his candle-stared eyes drilled through like perfection.
Our flame doesn't blink, stutter, or care that it might melt away.
It shrugs, and burns, and boldly stays.
Somewhere, someplace, a black cat burgles through your floorboards,
patter-pattering then pausing before more patter patter.
But wait, who's here? A moth! Dust-covered spectacle draped grand.
He spins around and around, endeavoring closer to understand.
Light your candlestick no matter how small it may seem,
before the night crowds swallow you whole in October's overstated scheme.
One little flame will keep you right,
can melt away that haunted night.