Fireflies in fevered stance,
Staring down serenity.
The eve of night like scorching sun
Turns sadness into memory.

A victor’s name inscribed herein;
The winner lays immobilized.
As solace melts like solder
Onto one resilient firefly.

His aura burns with empathy;
A candlestick that feeds his soul.
With viscous wax that burns and burns
He fights the fire for control.

No shackles taut, nor wires bound,
But brazen eyes in union stand
With rapier and rhythm
To the ticking of the hour hand.

Eyes ablaze with palms ajar.
Like wanting, all but waving now.
And supple shoulders, like a soldier,
Holding everything his bones allow.

The burn of flesh ignites his nerves;
A candid pose of frantic ache.
But soldiers never cry
And so he swallows every sound he makes.

You wouldn't tell, if you were there,
That he was failing years ago.
This fireflies already died;
He's living in the afterglow.

The palate suffocates his throat,
With buckled knees his bones collapse.
Without his flame, the candle wanes,
And buries him beneath the wax.
 
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