When the skin is pierced,
at that point,
your finger,
breaking past the ring,
like a midnight petal of drear,
to be called my dear.

To be called,
be near,
when everywhere you steer,
my dearest like a demon at my behest,
what about all the flowers,
are they not all a sum of hours.

Characters at loves command,
answering the sweetest beckoning,
now sullen and deafening,
at the rate of this infernal pounding,
a resounding no,
for the sake of your own rejection.

A mental machination,
the result of a twisted imagination,
is my last hope,
to deny that you are the bold face of fear,
the candle is the only thing alive here.