I seem to have a glimpse
To what cannot be missed
Of her, by the ashes
Of one previous decaying world
Her fingers have brought upon
To cease splendor, into hollowness.
Like the moon with its craters,
Like the sun with its core,
Where coldness descends into burning lust,
As life leaves its place, to be upon
The pyre, where necessity becomes convenience,
Where the appreciation becomes a passing instant
To melt, like one candle only seemed to be eternal,
To vent, like a final breath was never noticed.
Modern Romanticism 
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