It's a quaint feeling
Sitting by the fire
History forms underneath
Even
An oleaginous oil lamp
Dust dwells
Like brittle begonias
In the garden
Mapping
Out interests
Proof of theories
All leading to
Communicating secrets
Of enlightenment
By hiding in the light
Of the crystal clerisy
Away from the livid lies
Lividly lies
The fire and blood
That accompanied our stories
Unable to shed light on
Neo-classicism's darkest hours
Color became a question of chance
And in the end of race
There was only red