The flame danced the sort of dance that taunted the soul. Seducing eyes and encapsulating minds so that in this very moment all that is seen is it’s glowing reminder of burning hope.

It will beg you to play with its beauty. “Come play! Come play!” It will heckle at you. You won’t notice it’s sly way of embedding it’s truth into your mind. Playing with your naive little soul.

So each year, on the same day, you’ll sit in the kings chair at the edge of everyone’s anticipation reminding yourself to not fall for the tricks of the hopeless birthday candle.

That flame will go out with the same gusto as the hopes and dreams you blow into it.