Two halves, conjoined and a nightmare disguised as a quaint dream.
Forgotten, yet a constant linger behind a man's mind.
A lonesome story written in the eyes of the blind.
The frosty whispers in the wind, piercingly silence but a deafening scream.
They are a warm embrace in cold arms, not a promise of another day but a hope of a moment more, a mere lie— it seems.
Many memories pass, though they still remember each breath and blink every time.
Tears continue to fall like feathers on snow, a warm reminder of a lonesome life lived, one of a kind.
They seem them staring across from within the shadows, yet in blinding light.
Hand in hand, connected as one. Wearing a mask of peace reluctantly containing fear.
They sing a song of bliss, a welcoming of acceptance and recounting each encounter, each memory and breath.
Men see them as a passage of escape, a burning door to destiny and of one's unwanted birth right.
This weak life fades, this is why it is beautiful. They watch it drain away all that is there.

Though men run, death chases them faster.
Pulling them into nothingness, an abyss of darkness and emptiness.
They fear for though they are blind they are able to see and though they are deaf— they are able to hear.
Like a servant's endless attempts of escape, only to return in the end, fearful of his master.
Lives are countless though they remember every and in return—each life knows of them.
Mindlessly they fear them, though they understand what awaits them soon at the end.
All things must come to an end, all things end with them and they must all greet their master in death.
Beauty is in the moment of departing, an escape brought for you.
They beg for a second more but many wish they had not asked them.
Accepting death is beautiful and one cannot truly live without. Treasure each breath that escapes in the moment as tomorrow is no promise but a hope.