Traces of pawprints align and accumulate amongst the snow
The dusk casts the dawn away and tended their corpse
A vicious sound emanating, rusing the serenity of the twilight

"Papa, will you be home tonight?"
"Will you be carrying the candles again?"
"Will you stay with us tonight?"

Perpending echoes of the penumbra when the moon,
obscures, the darkened ceiling.

Slits of dim candlelight seep past the surface, a ****** demise
Crimson seeping, bubbled wine, creasing the remnants of the promise
My dearest, sweetest, purest child,
Amongst the veils of fireflies, the canids prowl through the streets
A deceitful parade amongst the illusion exposed,
The peaceful tracts are no more - I was struck.

The canids howl a sonorous melody, riveting, disconcerting harmonies
On the brink of the dying night, in a universe we brought so forth

The lingering of the slivers of silver shining,
the paradox of incongruent paths intertwining,
For each flame ceases in a communal suicide, the wolves stalk the solemn night.
The philosophy that was taught for generations and beyond,
It existed no more.

Beyond the blanket of hope and comfort, the warm amber rises
Stroking the pack, exuviating their hollow molt.

I was stranded here, on the island of scarlet
Roses floundering, thousands of rotten corpses
Fragrant luscious decadence, like candy to efflorescence
Floundering petals in hues of auburn and gold
Diluting to pallid gore.

"I will be home tonight"
"Smiling amongst the candlelight"
"For your dearest smile I recollected..."

"... and bled out once more"

I never proposed myself to be someone else and
The conception of being the best.
Perpending myself "why Not me"
There's an answer. I know. Don't speak words about it.

I don't have any words from you
You can't sing a song for me.
You'll never think of it.
You can't write things about me.
You'll never think of it.
I hate the way your words keep me safe
And the sight of me as nonentity
Leaving me cold and floating dead in the sea

Frantic.
I don't want you to open your eyes seeing me so worried
Angst.
Morbid, that's morbid.
Why the "other" is always better
Your eyes never landed on mine.
My eyes, my eyes that bursting on love and desire.

This ain't just love
This ain't just jealousy
This is something
This is something you need to see

My heart speaks the language of love
That will never be heard
The feelings,
My feelings, it's weary.
Flying in the surface of fire
Soon it will be burned, that'll the ashes mix in the air.

And there's nothing.

Nothing. I hope you won't regret the things you barely knew. Just lie to yourself I don't want you to feel hurt or bad. That's all I can give to you, My love.

the sequence requires a temporal pretense,
thusly prescribing time to thoughts that i tend to frequently frequent,
learning to liken my notions to pen strokes, ascensive.
harmonizing with the world, instead of agonizing over it,
prosperous from this defective preemptive pension.
remaining aggressively pensive, and peaceably gamboling,
towards a dangerously receptive conscious-less contemplation.
never unrelenting with the questioning, iron-****** in the leavening.
perpending, then comprehending viable praxis and cognation.
flirting with what i initially anticipated, practicing diurnal satiation.