So much beauty
In the strangest places.
The majesty of misery;
The completeness of mortality;
The infinity of despair.
Each of them so clutching,
Yet so unclutchable.
My fingertips ache
From the stretching,
The clawing.

There's something wrong.
My candles don't flicker.
They stare at me,
Not I at them.
Do they see images in me,
As I burn down,
As I grow dim?