When you grow older,
The fondest memory you have is of
Plucking her hair from her scalp.

And she appears in the mirror behind you,
Tying the straps to your wrist
To be gazed upon from the bed posts.

Just attempt to forget that incident,
Why it’ll only spoil things
When they can be so perfect.

She doesn’t appear in the dreams,
Just after
Just enough form to wrap around me.

I don’t understand the figures,
I pray they are not people I have seen
I shall see that face for days and days.

The figures want to get me,
They are spawns of her
And I know so for they terrify me and wake me.

As she arrives I shall know whether this is realm
Whether or not she is the director of my madness
Or wether or not she is my madness.

I am attracted to her darkness,
The opposite of a moth
Except for leaving a stain along the road.