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a sonnet by Spike, circa S6

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They wing like day-starved moths to you, as much
To dare your light as end your righteous stand
To seek beneficence at your sure hand
As if the sun stretched languid embered touch
Towards each poor vamp, mesmerized by dawn,
And through his cold, stilled chest, a-search for soul
Then, finding none, bestowed her gift: a coal;
A moment's pyre, effulgent; dust and gone.
I know it must be like that, at your stake
For just your fingertips alone are flame;
They scorch me, long-dead thing, and just the same
I'd have your blaze, your fists, suffer their ache.
I'll bask in brilliance 'til the final flash
Then crumble, roaring, sighing: a fall of ash.