Behold, the night born of a whim.
A certain fancy holds
Attaches with the string of stars
Unleashing ambers, liquids, golds.
Sit close by her, voices deep
The whisper of a thrill amongst
Unknowing crowds of knowing masks
A pleasant rush from lips that drunk.
Not hours next would truth be told
Or paper minds left to decay
The creases deep with blood to fold
On this night, a lie betrays.
Her head upon the dock does rest
And all the atropine now fades
The moon alights a deadpool blue
So to the ground will be her grave.
The soft and desperate plea alights
And demons snare the bleeding soul.
A murmured fall of dying flocks
That flew straight from the aching hole.