The final gasp of fire against the lamp,
The rattle born of crimson filling lungs,
The closing pop of gasp from silent swamp,
The rumbling ice and shrieking crack deep dug.

The lamp's mascara—pretty eyes adorn,
And now another tree in marshland stands,
And somewhere gorgeous baby girl is born,
The ice cap nursing water slips to lands.

The first of sparks beginning forest flames,
The rains of spring lead river spewing flood,
And flames of forest flower cones of pines,
And silt to soil through spring cascade is wed.

Thus, elders to younglings anguish explain,
About the future born from ancient slain.

A voice like hundred whispers spoken loud,
In land of ****** snow as it was sown,
And drifting question it forever bound,
A yew tree seeking home in ice and stone.

In forest grown of golden solid woods,
The channels frozen under ice still hum,
With eerie wails that silence songs of birds,
Through ever present, ever crooning thrum.

The voice of forest cast as mighty tool,
The flowing channels, veins in ****** snow,
The wailing question spreading bitter yule,
The yew and stone in rooted steadfast vow.

Through autumn, ice or nature's anguished blow,
Forever glowing life will always flow.

Like threading mountain path on moonless night,
Or swimming far from shore in harvest moon.
Like bargaining against the fairy might,
Or bray in hinterland at night alone.

Like morning dew licked from mountain pine,
Or running feet on sunny morning beach,
Like wintry nights with fur and sweet mulled wine,
Or snuggled sleep beyond the wakeful reach.

Like knowing death will come to claim loved ones,
Or watching broken dreams turn scrape and dust,
Like liquid joy in life of sandy dunes,
Or taking knife and leaving blood and rust.

And I pen words of peril, ease, and gloom,
So, I could experience them from my room.

Bazaar with many sounds and comely sight,
Where shops of spice and sweets pull crowds along,
While silk and muslin sold are soft and light.
Where jades and jasper bright on tarps belong!

The cocky kings with their coin purses jiggling,
The merchants seeking ways to coin relieve,
While nimble thieves with fingers lingering,
And beggars begging to next day survive.

Here, nights are hotter than days, if you know
the right ways; wares worth gold in hidden lanes.
The host like ants find ways through sand or snow,
Through great bazaar's knotted and busy veins.

There's nothing you won't find in great bazaar,
Its treasures draw great kings to ****** war.

I write to help me and myself, only
then I will have a little relief, when
It kills me to admit that I'm lonely.
That I am alone, even in heaven.

Where I have everything but people
I love, people who are everything.
My choices and their effect still ripple
This is the jail of my own reckoning

I want chance to relive my life again,
To walk the path that I did not take then,
To take the choice that will help me regain
Their trust, their faith, their love, their very pain

I will set everything right even
if I have to leave my hell and heaven.

The Choir of Judgement is out of sentiment,  
All lies that I told them were deftly sheared.
Underneath threefold stare of vivid Judgement  
The angels, burning yet cold, must be feared.

The Choir Contrition bleeds the blood of ice.
An angel feather owned by Contrition
Used like flensing knife to cut out all lies  
that I told my mirror in deception.

The Choir of Mercy is eternal pain.  
They use flames of worship to scorch my bone,    
So only spirit of the act remains.  
My mortal flaws keep me from going insane.

The Choir Redemption then considered me,
They sensed my anguish and set my soul free.

Blind and afraid, we step into the maze—
Walls of tall cornstalks and glowing pumpkin,
We walk right in the monster's sordid gaze,
A horror town luring us in through our kin.

We were blind to ignore its grim omen,
And now we pay by playing this cruel game,
No plot is untouched in this horror den;  
The town held hostage for an unknown aim.

We're ****** like dolls, like marionettes around.
Are we but actors in this dread story?
Again and again, for the next tale bound—
All of us live, if one hunts the quarry.

We'll survive this mockery of a tale;
Our goal is to game-master's plan derail!