With the sweet lingering death, I sat by the bonfire,
though it seemed the above may pour, the cascading drops like Casimire.

The unruly wind cluelessly knocks the eyes in daze,
but those eyes seem to have been lost in ashen greys.

Seemingly, the smoke in gloom is desperately rising to the peak of highs,
where the evergreen meadows reside to be mine.

Hush, my dear light, you are annoyingly too bright,
thou let me burn in the igni, thy...