Fear of eyes, faces, and mouths, maws in the dark,
Like a puny little beast, poor little boy.
He dreads a lump shining in the dark,
Its spires lit with the fires of hell.
The candle, oh the candle, a dagger waiting for me
Each new candle takes away my innocence,
Rotting my poor body from this sweet young lad
To a miserable, frightened shell of what once was.
Its flames, the spawn of Hell’s fires
They taunt me, they laugh as I lose time
The more their hosts gather, a forest of wax
They summon a portal to a fiery doom.
Darkness, the cloak of death,
It does not come in a skeleton
But in a cohort of candles,
Each spear of wax tipped with sorrow.
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