The candle on the bedside table
has match-heads floating on its surface
sealed for eternity in its tepid frozen state
or until they are liberated from the marred flesh
the otherwise smooth white perfection in wax
blackened with spots made in a battle with self-control
lost, again, like so many battles,
the empty bottles in the bathroom waste
suddenly robbed of their precious contents all at once
not sapped bit by bit like most
and the attempts to impose will on the disorder in the room
still waiting to be finished
beginnings lose their meaning when
they lie unfinished for so long
prematurely aged
despite their youth
like the grey skin of 
the candle on the bedside table.