Serene

Because she made love to her pen,
wore her hair a tangled mess,
slept only when the rain stopped,
they figured her strange.

Because she drank her wine
from the bottle,
her beer with a straw,
and appeared never to eat,
they decided she'd fade,

like the ink on the pad
she scribbled, violently
as if she had a point
at the end of her fingers;
tapered like the candles
her mother melted in cheap
wine bottles to light the room,
to lay with her father,

to create the woman,
that wore the name,
that matched the mood,
the flavor, the lighting,
of second hand candles