Life is a transitory thing,

reaching the finish nearly as it begins.

It scarcely frustrates its pace enough,

it cannot appreciate the beauty, horror, or intrigue—  

these that churn to being in the wake of its steps.

 Yet as it bounds forward,

the lights that gather into flame,

 rather than shine with persevering luster,

fester and burn.

And just as it approaches the close of its ephemeral sprint,

hardly aware of the purpose behind its pressing onward,

 or perhaps where it is even going…

it must make a choice.

To let go,

or desperately cling to the mere possibility,

of smoldering for just a bit longer.

With all its strength and will,

it outstretches its desire for that infinitesimal spark.

The hope that it may continue,

it yearns to grasp it in heart…

but the spark withers away,

hissing and slithering from the fingertips…

 into ash that falls upon the ground,

silent as snow.

And as the glow from the spark unravels,

it starts to understand how close the finish has always been.

Where tireless and eternally patient,

Death had followed knowingly in its footsteps,

waiting for the very day to come,

when the light would burn no more.