The lone candle stood so still,
Yet flickered on the windowsill.
In the dark, the moth still roamed,
Captivated by its glow.
Left alone it soon went out,
The moth thought, of a sleeping bout.
Sitting there, all in the dark,
Not a glimmer it could draw.
Its love, the moth soon saw,
Was lost; not a twinkle, not a spark.
Fire out, wick gone sour,
Dead, in the middle of the darkest hour.