She is a tall spire of
Roaring fire, a twist of
Ember spark making off into the night.

A racing soul she languishes
Upon the water, expiring quick as a mayfly,
Having barely lived.

Forwent conclusion, her end
Is as silent as a needle prick, terribly
Painful in the bloom of a red wing.

How I longed to have truly met her,
Click a glass upon her heart and
Salute her savage retrograde over the sun.

When I speak of her, I still talk
As though she were alive; a hidden thing,
Like an unspoken scar, or a celestial body not yet born.