Lit candle, melting

A sput'ring flame doth hold the night at bay;
A waxen soldier leans beneath its weight,
And holds his lonely vigil for the day,
Believing that the darkness must abate;

On tabletop in barren cottage dorm,
He bleeds his melting mass upon the wood;
And though his effort ruin his mortal form,
He dare not doubt the cause he holds is good;

Nocturnal foes beset him from all sides,
His waning strength, alas, is ebbing fast;
With ev'ry spit and sputter light subsides,
And soon the wick he bears will burn its last;

'Tween hope and dark despair our hearts doth wend,
'Til one day our corporeal forms transcend;

(Keep your flames burning, people! We're going to need 'em.)