The fire burns bright, a strong crimson flame,
Untainted by rain, wind, snow; it stays.
It dances, flickers, jumps like it’s life is a game.
Her breathe near it’s existence causes a sway.

It’s non-symmetrical form, its entropy dance,
The burning of air, of wick, the melting of wax,
How is it not a being, perhaps just in trance?
The smoke given off has essence to last.

Drip after drip it lands in the tray,
Liquified, building up at the bottom.
It gathers itself once more, for another day,
To be used again, perhaps in Autumn.

Wick is it’s shelter,
Oxygen is it’s breath.
A small spark is it’s birth,
A strong wind is it’s death.
Though fire can be powerful,
It can also be weak.
Through all this, one thing can be said,
Every little flame can be unique.

Great Write!

Thanks =) The section before the last I hate, but whatever. I couldn't better it in anyway. Plus, half the time I don't like going back and changing poems after I first write them because to me the initial words mean more.

It's all good. I look at overall content, not line by line analysis

True. I think I am my own worst enemy when it comes to writing haha.