| General Fiction posted February 16, 2019 |
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A life of service.
The Poet Who Wouldn't Understand
by Heather Knight
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The poet said he pitied me because my life was short. I stared at him uncomprehendingly across the bare room.
'How can you feel sorry for me?' I asked. 'I am useful and bring light to those around me.'
'Yes, but your existence is ephemeral and while sharing your light, you waste away.'
I looked around, saw his wobbly table, his bare floor, his broken window pane covered with an old newspaper and wondered...
'I think your life is much worse than mine. You spend hours writing words that hardly anyone reads. You have no money for food or coal and you pine because the woman you love doesn't even know you exist.'
He walked towards me and I noticed how thin he was. His face was pale and his eyes bulging. He was wearing a coat that used to belong to his father and was so threadbare that you could see through it.
The sun, meanwhile, danced towards the horizon. The sky turned pink and, after a few minutes, black.
The poet rubbed his hands and picked up a matchbox. He took out the last match and lit the wick on top of my head.
It felt hot, but I didn't mind. I was used to it. I could feel the wax melting and landing on the dirty glass plate where I stood.
After a while, the poet opened his favorite book of tales and sat next to me. He read aloud and I hung on his every word. I did love Wilde.
I was so enraptured that I didn't notice my head was almost touching my feet.
'Time to put you out, my friend,' the poet said to me. 'I'd like to be able to read a bit more tomorrow and you are the last candle I have.'
The poet said he pitied me because my life was short. I stared at him uncomprehendingly across the bare room.
'How can you feel sorry for me?' I asked. 'I am useful and bring light to those around me.'
'Yes, but your existence is ephemeral and while sharing your light, you waste away.'
I looked around, saw his wobbly table, his bare floor, his broken window pane covered with an old newspaper and wondered...
'I think your life is much worse than mine. You spend hours writing words that hardly anyone reads. You have no money for food or coal and you pine because the woman you love doesn't even know you exist.'
He walked towards me and I noticed how thin he was. His face was pale and his eyes bulging. He was wearing a coat that used to belong to his father and was so threadbare that you could see through it.
The sun, meanwhile, danced towards the horizon. The sky turned pink and, after a few minutes, black.
The poet rubbed his hands and picked up a matchbox. He took out the last match and lit the wick on top of my head.
It felt hot, but I didn't mind. I was used to it. I could feel the wax melting and landing on the dirty glass plate where I stood.
After a while, the poet opened his favorite book of tales and sat next to me. He read aloud and I hung on his every word. I did love Wilde.
I was so enraptured that I didn't notice my head was almost touching my feet.
'Time to put you out, my friend,' the poet said to me. 'I'd like to be able to read a bit more tomorrow and you are the last candle I have.'
'How can you feel sorry for me?' I asked. 'I am useful and bring light to those around me.'
'Yes, but your existence is ephemeral and while sharing your light, you waste away.'
I looked around, saw his wobbly table, his bare floor, his broken window pane covered with an old newspaper and wondered...
'I think your life is much worse than mine. You spend hours writing words that hardly anyone reads. You have no money for food or coal and you pine because the woman you love doesn't even know you exist.'
He walked towards me and I noticed how thin he was. His face was pale and his eyes bulging. He was wearing a coat that used to belong to his father and was so threadbare that you could see through it.
The sun, meanwhile, danced towards the horizon. The sky turned pink and, after a few minutes, black.
The poet rubbed his hands and picked up a matchbox. He took out the last match and lit the wick on top of my head.
It felt hot, but I didn't mind. I was used to it. I could feel the wax melting and landing on the dirty glass plate where I stood.
After a while, the poet opened his favorite book of tales and sat next to me. He read aloud and I hung on his every word. I did love Wilde.
I was so enraptured that I didn't notice my head was almost touching my feet.
'Time to put you out, my friend,' the poet said to me. 'I'd like to be able to read a bit more tomorrow and you are the last candle I have.'
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