Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.
The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion
as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch
the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.
Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason
declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring
that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,
thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards
beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps
in a world of dark delight.