like fireworks that fizzle out,
we bloom loud against the dark,
convinced the sky is listening,
convinced this light is permanent.
but the night never keeps souvenirs.
we rise from soil with borrowed names,
call it purpose, call it fate,
stack our days like they won’t collapse,
repeat the same motions
until repetition feels like meaning.
everything circles back.
roots to bone,
bone to dust,
dust pretending it was never alive.
love feels infinite
until it isn’t.
empires feel solid
until they crack quietly,
one grain at a time.
we loop—
wake, want, work, wait—
polishing routines
until they shine enough
to distract us from the ending.
but even the brightest flare
knows its job is brief.
it burns, it dazzles,
then apologizes with smoke.
nothing escapes the fade.
not stars, not systems, not us.
we return to the ground we borrowed from,
complete the circle,
as if we were always just passing through
-Deia