Turn-of-Age

i hate writing descriptions.

They were running through the candles

Like a car on an interstate of four dollar gasoline,

 

And the memories were burning in an uneven haze,

Holding time by the handles: past and present and future

 

In the light of the flame and the gold-hued sheen

That lit the air and hovered like a prayer

 

As they let the candles of final summer afternoons

Flame and glow and dance,

 

Seeing the wick burn near an end,

Held tight in a turn-of-age trance.