The sweet pink glow of a dieing flame.
Its last endearing attempt at a breath.
Sad, yet so beautiful is its claim.
But all too soon will be its death.
So much like our very own lives.
Gripping at the last of our wick.
Trying so hard yet the end arrives.
Yes, our flame will in time grow sick.
And like the dieing flame, we fight.
We struggle and sometimes win.
Still we are creatures who lose our sight.
Always in our minds, we do sin.
Try as we may the oil will burn.
In the end the wick is gone.
No more will we get what we so yurn.
Our flame will go out as pink as dawn.