The cries of pain were warnings of death
in that house made barren by the intruder's cruelty,
disgusted by a speck of dust scattering on the floor—
melted parts of the candles—while forgetting he was
an intruder, unwanted and uninvited.
The pitch of woes—so high it hurt the world's ears—
came from the candles that had yet
to support flames brightening them.
They melted, because the flame they did support
did not enlightened but destroyed— it destroyed them.
It would prevail to pulverize others
the candles guarded close in fear and love.
All because of a house.
All because of whispers from the wind
coming from an unknown source—no,
all because of the stinging lies dressed as absolute truths.
All because the intruder saw the lights as
bringers of maddening inferno.
The candles understood some of them
were lit to annihilate under a misguided—or was it beneficial?
—belief that they did it for good,
that they did it to cease the monsters
assisting the intruder.
The candles were against their lethal others, but
why should the candles be the target too?
They melted while the world watched
with its loud protests but limited actions
as the power rested in the hand of the intruder
who frowned and clicked their tongue,
firmly believing the house belonged to them.