Weary Flame Poem by ashok jadhav

My soul drags itself through each day,
a candle burned low, flickering against wind.
Breath comes shallow, moments stretch endless,
and even joy feels heavy, borrowed, brief.
Existence presses like unyielding stone,
its weight unrelieved by laughter or light.
I move through hours that offer nothing,
yet demand everything—attention, feeling, hope.
The heart remembers longing too well,
but the spirit trembles at the thought of tomorrow,
knowing that tomorrow will ask the same,
that the cycle of fatigue never ends.
I am not broken; only worn,
threads of life fraying in quiet despair.
Each pulse is labor, each thought a struggle,
each memory a burden that will not rest.
And yet I continue,
because even the most exhausted soul
holds a stubborn ember,
a faint, defiant insistence
that existence, however heavy, must still be endured.