The empire is in flames.
I watch from a stoop.
Blazing orange turns to gray;
I've cried out all my cones.
All that remains is the twisted
corpse of happiness.
Fate's disembodied laugh
silences the moans.
Harmony has be replaced by
a more pensive, gloomy anthem.
Ash falls from the sky,
filling a bird's nest.
I will die a warm, lonely death.
A butterfly, exhausted, lands on
a withered rose.
The empire is in flames,
so I light my blunt and walk away.