to drip down arms and goosebumped legs
in scarlet rivers, serpentine,
it seems only right
that the sky should burn as well.
Like roses heaped upon a stage,
cloaked in tumultuous applause,
the end will fall in exultation.
Shall we stand upon the shore
and taste the salt upon our lips,
basking in the last breezes
before the Breaking?
These last days are a ball,
a promenade of bliss,
a eulogy of memory.
Shiva, ever the gentleman,
asks for one last dance.