The Pyre

Time lays heavy upon a weary brow,
Cold hands clutch at a beating heart.
Sat alone in deafening silence, he sees
The time has come for the final dart.

Burning cold of shining stone,
The freezing fire of another’s gaze,
Slowly wavering, turning, toppling,
He has reached his final craze.

Encircling flames are the escape,
The burning catharsis of death.
Withering hands clutch ever still,
Holding on to the final breath.