My candle did not light itself. Another flame touched me when I drew too near to survive. This is the use of bowing.
That candle also bowed to receive its flame. A multitude of genuflections leading us back to the beginning.
But the mind keeps asking, "Does the same fire annihilate every heart? Is it myself or another, burning inside?
"Tell me friend, I must know: Are we one, or two?" Such questions are a holocaust of moths, dancing too near the light.
All I know is, my soul was passed from wick to wick. I was created out of gratitude.
Artwork: 'Burning Butterflies 25,' Mat Collishaw