swan song

when nothing remains to burn,
                              you use yourself as a wick,
flames
                              sputtering from your fat.
the stones reply in kind,
                              offering their density
for the flickering,
                              leaning in where they can,
or standing solemn.
                              from a distance,
the stars welcome you
                              as kin
and semaphore
                              a greeting.
even if you cannot last,
                              they have seen you.