wax museums

no matter how bright the flame, the wax always dries hard and cold.
when i was little i thought that they looked like little tear drops as the wick came closer and closer to its imminent metal end
but i was always curious;
were those little orange faces crying or just sweating?
a dark and cathartic realization of their finite existence, or just, well,
the physiological by-products of their existence?
i want to be more than wax