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.