The woman is writing in an unknown ink.
Izōs waurda in rauþai blōmins gamelida.
Darkness drives her hand.
Þaurstei blōþis swē þis ufsnaiþandins.
Writing her lexicon of horror.
Eis beidun saiƕan izos wulþu.
Volume bled at the seams.
Her voice was that of angels.
Kussus lubja-miliþs.
Eyes are mountain lions hunting in reed fields.
Gadáuþnan fram izōs handau was fahēþs.
She skips in the rainstorms.

Mortality's cruel kiss
paints our skin
with hues of red.
And we are but leather
splitting in the darkness.
Until the wounds of time
extinguish our pulsate.
And then all that's left
is the haunting refrain
of what could never be.
Leaving behind a ghostly silhouette.
In sparkling dust where I once was.
Fading into nothingness, eternal.
And I am gone.
Letter on the boudoir.
Sealed in wax.
Rides off into the abendrot.
When the stars weep carmine.
And the porcelain shatters hail.
The light will blind us.
Oh yes, it will.
We all die a little.
We all fade in the middle.
We all change.
Sad to say:
"We already are performing our last scenes."

𝐹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎  
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓆𝓊𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈
𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝒾𝓁
𝒾𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽'𝓈 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉
𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓊𝑒      
𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈
𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈  
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎