The endless theory of you, hand-claps in the silence; ashes on
the mirror top. The endless theory of you.  The long walk home
and the expiring shelf life, sparkling in the twilit distance-
the waterfalling image of you.  Citizen of the painted township
lingering in other days. Walking faithful sidewalks for peaceful
sleep at night.  All the pixie dust, to the wind; like words of
a lost innocence- the page-burning devastated you, effectively
ending.  I wish this poem could be as good as its title.