Little Candle, I found you. Discarded, half burnt. Someone couldn’t light your wick, though they had tried. You were blackened and slightly melted. Your wick was hard to find. The lighters had not the time to do much but melt and soften your wax.
You were not an expensive candle. Parofin, a waste product from refineries. Definately not bee’s wax. Certainly not the new Soy wax. Sort of a pale red. You were in a glass holder. Another testament to inexspensive. Not gold iufsed stained glass window red. No; a washed-out looking sort of red.
But you were whole! Discarded, unwanted, cast-off; but whole! Intact! The cheap glass was not even cracked! Never had you been lit! And now I found you! And I have matches! And a pocket knife! Would you like to be lit? Wow! Small wick. But I lit you.
You surprised me by taking the flame immediately, almost hungrily. Sort of small flame. But no hesitation; and because your light was so soft and gentle, and safe in the glass, I let you burn as I slept, knowing you would not start a fire! And you, finally lit, you watched over my sleep. You never stoppped, You kept the gloom at bay all night. You made me happy! Thank you, Little Candle.