A flowing ball of whiskers, a bright shade of bottle green
grieving for the souls uncast, lost, locked in their own dungeons.

Windswept ghosts drowning in the grandeur of delusion,
the fire burns vividly, deceives feetless waifs to a close, 

and then the burgeoning shade falls. A twinkling speck in the distance,
the will-o’-the-wisp, not once to be reached.

— s.sunga, Will-o’-the-wisp