His opulent flame burns
with an optimistic flow, spurs
pirouetting memories in a room that’s dim;
a tactile projector of elation, he is without synonym.
But the more he beacons
the more his base liquifies;
the brighter he burns, the faster he dies.
Ecstasy changes his composition,
for a light that bright cannot go without drawing attrition;
this is the Happiness Tax—
melted skin becomes a woeful trap,
élan vital waxed.
