Out of Existence

The slender sun receding where pain and thought departed. The hymns that illness breaths into our hearts, a seat. It sings in silver threats and golden phrases turning, a verse no one forgets: The Song of All Things Burning. This one is predetermined. This one will find no favor. This one is weight unburdened, dragging down our lives. This one is predetermined we all know just what comes next. In the depths of your unfailing strange selfishness, stay the last corrupt remaining pale monuments. In the dark of your unending daft unconsciousness, does the spark catch to the edifice and flame. In flames.