Gray hair all over
My face is a mess
I haven’t shaved in months
This is how i present myself to the flame

The one locked in the chained box

It wants to race
Race to the end

A pen flies into my right hand
All you can see is a blur of black
Whole paragraphs appear from under the pen

I am writing my last poem
My last book
My last confession
When the flame dies

The wind picks up
It starts raining
Making the flame cling for life

But i am busy writing
Never seeing it coming

The end

A small splash of blue water
A thin streak of smoke

A final poem