Force of Lung

The sun glazes,
The white speckled ceiling,
During the morning's snow-capped peak,
Making light,
Of the guttering candle.

The sitter embraces reality,
And attempts to kill the flame,
With force of lung.

Inhaling,
He prepares,
For the extinguishing outrush,
But his lungs,
Are empty,
Shriveled,
And old.

A horrible wheeze,
Is heard,
Over the birds' cheery chirping,
As the candle burns down,
Past noon.