Something burns somewhere.
A body. A child. A king. A scribe.
Lasting embers. Lighting the way to the stage. A solitary spotlight on a dying life. Leaving behind memories for centuries to bathe in.
Warm glow. Passing light.
Me, I don't like the light. I like the anticipation of the fade-out. Like the purple sky before the blackout. The last flicker in hot wax.
Battle-worn, weary and lamenting. That is how they leave the survivors. Damn the end. Somebody leave a sunrise.
Leave me the tentative half-beat step of a morning ray. Leave me your skin and your years. Let me hold onto the muslin on your body and the calluses on your fingers. Tell me you are there even when you're not.
Hang around in the palace of the good ghost and enter my house with the wind in my sleeve.