Die down, bright flame, and never more arise
To spark the coals of anguish and our fears.
We’re loath to think the dampness of our eyes
Extinguishes such warmth, but some few tears
Are all one may extract from cold, damp ash,
Remains of what might once have been desire.
And yet that is the way of it. We’re brash,
Get randy, and begin to play with fire,
Then, thinking it will burn eternally,
Find out too late he hasn’t any cash.