Wax candle grasped in trembling hand, flame flickering in the draft. Molten wax, dripping on calloused slender fingers. Trembling voice rasping in a nervous hoarse whisper “please don’t be afraid. I don’t want you to be alone”. Darkness as thick as oil, and heavy as a quilt, threatening to drown flame and voice. Feeble light held high in hopes to reach one. Just one. To pull one tired soul back from the brink and give them hope.
If that can be done, maybe the trembling hand can rest, and set the candle in it’s holder again. Maybe the voice will lose its nervous, tired rasp and become calm and quiet. And maybe, despite the weight of darkness bearing down, he will become
Light.
The Phoenix Narrative 