Innocence, so fleeting,

Is precious but not to be desired,

For the heart that has never stopped fervently beating,

The heart that has ne'er begun bleeding,

Is always consumed by the fire.

Callous though it may seem,

Most things precious are merely a dream.

Quell the raging flames,

Conflagration, deadly fire,

Everything burns, but not all shames;

All that remains of our foolish games

Are ashes of long-dead desire.

Remember the siren's cry,

Haunting, acrid lullaby.

Indelible, but insignificant, the way

I find myself, with doubt and mistrust,

It doesn't matter what they say

I can feel that the fires still play

And burn all that was left of us.

But the august visions remain

As out burn the fires fueled by pain.