The Brilliance of Isolation

The wick burns fast,
most like a fuse,
when no wax can slow it's musing.
So does the soul,
when found alone,
No love or friend diffusing.
A brilliant light and no respite,
No damper on the yearning.
No watchman late,
to dull the rate
and slow the wick from burning.
Till at last the wick is spent,
and what's left is oil and smoke,
like a memory to those nearby,
 who's throats with sorrows choke.
for we never know,
how low one glows
till at last their light is gone.
or how needed is the wax of love,
for the brilliant to safely burn.

Conversion-sation

Me: "Lord I have a lot of issues I need to give to You"

God: "no you don't."

Me: "??" •thinking of all my issues•

God: "you need to give yourself to Me."