The flicker of the flame,
Stands square on wicks wilting,
Throwing fire and passion to the walls,
Like flailed gestures to a balance,

A point marked in light,
Ever rolling into empty dark,
Ever bowing into pointed streaks,
Ever painting into deeper suns,

Some layered hues,
Arrayed in deepened harmony,
Marching roses to their daffodils,
Soon ruffled in the wind.

A boisterous crackle,
In a moment of unstable lurching,
In a moment placing down its brush,
In a moment humming to the flowers in the wind.

Praise the author of salvation,
The poet of all days,
He doesn't leave a story unfinished,
Not even halfway done He says,
And even when the story throws us,
And the twisting turns don't go our ways,
He's working for our good for sure,
As we are His and He is ours.