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.