Upon the final flicker, whispers descend,
"I am become the dust of yore, a flicker to ember.
Gold codex of stars, encaged in astral thrice,
Breathe my light, famished cosmos, twixt silent ire."
Fortune's facade laid bare, archaic runes preached,
Threads of a tapestry woven from a stellar scream.
In orbits I tremble, a symphony masked in void dust,
Coins of ethereal dream, the merchant is wealth's ghost.