The End.

The flames they have so carefully cultivated will raze them to the ground.

The sky is fire,

like his eyes,

like his heart.

The world is ending,

and the doves that flew so high

are falling

from the sky.

Your cheeks are red and warm,

your veins filled with more liquid fire than blood,

and you can't feel yourself crying.

He is there,

and all the fire in the sky

has somehow collected in his gaze.

He holds that bloody flag

as if it is his lifeline.

You realize that it is,

he has given his life for it,

and you have never felt 

outrage such as this.

You cross the room in short strides,

his eyes hold a question you can't answer

and won't have the time to, anyway.

You feel yourself speak

but don't hear the words,

and he smiles.

His hand presses into yours,

and things are quiet and right,

and the fire is warm when the sky falls

and the world ends.