Firefly.

I am the hot firefly,
From the summer long gone,
That you had once caught,
And have now bottled up,
In your stinking ‘Old monk’


 I light up the gloomy attic,
That houses your lost ecstasy,
From the heart that raced,
But is reduced to a kernel,
So passive and lonely.


 I crouch over my dim bottom,
To feel the waning strength,
Of my light, and the room,
In which you languish, pallid,
Insipid yet mulling.

...


 You move to the window,
And see the likes of me,
Gliding over a narrow stream,
Under the willow.
Glimmering grains of light.


 You return and shatter,
The dim bottle.
Stare at the shards and stutter.
I let out my burning light,
Once and for all.