There was a flame in a lamp,
That would dance about all day.
It felt like a concentration camp,
She wasn't ever allowed to dwindle
away.
She was always trying to peep out,
She needed to see what was going on.
Everyone knew she was especially
devout,
To that wise, old gravedigger, John.
She could fight all the evil in the
world,
Was what she honestly believed.
Probably because that's what she was
told,
Or were John's shudders misconceived?
John would never enter the graveyard,
Without her clutched in his hand.
And that big, hefty Saint Bernard,
That had a malfunctioning pituitary
gland.
Every night they had to roam around,
Making sure everything was still in its
grave.
When everything seemed safe and sound,
They'd return to John's little cave.
There came a day when John died,
He just rushed up those stairs.
And the flame mourned and cried,
And was put out by her own tears.
-Shikha Sreenivas
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