Dying fire in hand: a poem

Many hours and days, 

 I've laid to waste

with pointless diversions

and foolish aims chased.

Standing on this peak,

 sweeping the expanse

of time already spent,

Wax drips from the candle long lit.

I see houses unbuilt,

 Pathes not walked,

and people unmet.

My debt to this place.

I will run through these halls,

dying fire in hand.

Wake the sleeping,

I will scream the dark away.

One day, my lungs will collapse, 

and I'll be glad I screamed 

while I could.