It is endless
their aptitude of flaming to burst and blaze out,
their propensity of flaming
from one fire to the other,
from one to two, on and on,
emancipating themselves
from evolution to evolution
connecting all the combustibles,
searching for the paradise lost,
the perfection
the final word,
reaching out
to unreachable stars
upon their ceiling from within,
higher than skies,
searching
for something that could not be added to, or reduced,
searching for the amaranthine shades,
a shade
that time incessantly,
with galaxies of gardens
blooming senselessly into, to emulate,
a conclusion,
something that always evolves
but never exhausts,
never is complete.
