I am part of a secret race of bedfellows who, while draped in the rose linen of sleep, lash out at the dawn, a suffering enterprise, with a multitude of blinks, signaling revenge to the moon, my ally, which in the sized light of the sun, we can no longer see, yet, waiting until it sneaks up on the horizon, like an uninvited guest, our dreams will conspire in unison, like an army of winged blades, decapitating it in its own shine, leaving its bleeding fluid to sweat upon a flower, we will let it put butterflies to sleep!

The streets are being laced with kerosene, men with limbs made of matches
Begin to walk in a march
The curtains are becoming lighter, ashes to the wind
The cries of those unaware, become a song to the ether
Hands are held tighter, kisses become more sincere
Eyes become more forward, words more clear
The sky is more orange, like a Monet painting
Beautiful, such a sight to admire
As giants of ash topple the buildings
Love becomes more real, more scarce
As lives become lost
The gutters become full
With the breath of lovers
A hush in the chaos