The woman is writing in an unknown ink.
Izōs waurda in rauþai blōmins gamelida.
Darkness drives her hand.
Þaurstei blōþis swē þis ufsnaiþandins.
Writing her lexicon of horror.
Eis beidun saiƕan izos wulþu.
Volume bled at the seams.
Her voice was that of angels.
Kussus lubja-miliþs.
Eyes are mountain lions hunting in reed fields.
Gadáuþnan fram izōs handau was fahēþs.
She skips in the rainstorms.

Mortality's cruel kiss
paints our skin
with hues of red.
And we are but leather
splitting in the darkness.
Until the wounds of time
extinguish our pulsate.
And then all that's left
is the haunting refrain
of what could never be.
Leaving behind a ghostly silhouette.
In sparkling dust where I once was.
Fading into nothingness, eternal.
And I am gone.
Letter on the boudoir.
Sealed in wax.
Rides off into the abendrot.
When the stars weep carmine.
And the porcelain shatters hail.
The light will blind us.
Oh yes, it will.
We all die a little.
We all fade in the middle.
We all change.
Sad to say:
"We already are performing our last scenes."