I start with a flame, bright and bold, I shrink in my strength, though I still glow, What am I, as I fade slow?

Snip and tidy strands, Binds pages like old magic, Little grip of steel.

I am the root of wrongs. I can make the most elaborate plans crash down. First, a woman, unwed. Second, where water rests if theres a bridge. Third, the hardest comedy, what you do in lines, and in place. Put them together and you get me. If the clues elude you because of my wording, then perhaps the answer is me.

I brighten up a windowless room on a sunny day. No flick of a switch, or bulb needed in any way.

I am eaten without need of plant, nor plow. The product of a worker’s brow. I am left when tears are dry. Born from water, when I meet it, I die.