Flickering little flame,
guttering in your final moments,
what was once some great blaze,
now gasping your final breaths.

Lower and lower now,
blinking some kind of morse code into the Aether,
telling those out beyond the dark of your tale,
of your victories and defeats.

Of where you were and what you did,
the sights you saw and the things you heard,
whisper some more now,
little flame.

Tell them of how you started out as this little spark,
brought forth from material energy,
whose trip was a tale all its own,
summoned from the heavens to bear down,
and claim your terrestrial throne.

And oh, what a throne you held,
little flame,
rising up to conquer this world,
beautiful yet terrifying,
horrifying and baroque,
a destructive force that would sweep the board,
and set up the pieces anew.

You smolder out,
little flame,
accompanied by a little whisp of smoke,
a sad but appropriate epitaph,
to mark the end of your reign,
a glowing ember all that remains,
which disappears soon after you.

Thousands upon thousands,
Twinkling lights thrown up upon the sky,
Little islands of white out in the distance,
Oceans of black separating them.

Each so far,
And yet so close,
Reach out and never touch them still,
The Galaxy arm spanning the gap,
Marking our tiny place on this big ol' map,
A tiny island all our own

Dust kicked up by boots in the auburn dusk,
Fire alight with June's angry ire,
A lover scorned,
Willing to burn with her most righteous of anger,
Plucking out angry chords upon a silver and brass lyre.

Clothing hugging tight,
Leaving nothing yet everything to the imagination,
Sweet temptress of addiction and spite,
Eyes blazing green like a copper-fueled flame.

Cheekbones so sharp that it slices the air as she passes,
With those ****** features only second in their cutting potential when compared to her razor words.

Legs like stilts,
Going all the way to the moon,
With heels that could have punctured the hands of Christ,
That could just as easily be used to keep one's casket securely closed.

Those eyes seem angry,
We should probably start running

Call in the kids from the yard,
Won't you love?
Supper is ready,
And the table is set.

Our children run in,
Excited to tell us all about their day,
Of school subjects they're excited about,
And all the new friends they met.

You look at me with an amused look in your eyes,
When they complain about their troubles,
As if it will be the hardest thing they'll ever face,
And I smirk too, amused as well but also filled with melancholy.

I open my eyes,
And I look over to see you sleeping next to me,
And I look back at the dream I just had.

No,
Not a dream,
Just a glimpse into the future,
Just around the bend...

Spare me your honeymoon love,
Give me some of that seven-year-old love,
Where sacrifices are given,
And sacrifices are taken,
Where your significant other is your port in all storms,
The foundation your house is built upon.

Wouldn't you stay?