Waxing Wick

A spark of light,

A chip of rock,

Power unleashed,

with purpose sought.

A tempered chaos,

brought to width.

Destruction wreathed

and Holy lit.

Passion burns alied the wick,

and with it, purpose formed.

Alas, of finite length and width,

So too may it be scorned.

Though waxy passion still resides,

its form has all been lost.

Until a wick is deftly placed,

direction it haseth not.

This wick will come when it is time,

its light will lead your way,

and once again a flame will fire,

thus your heart will yearn to play.