A divine comedy dances,

on lines etched into flesh,

long ago by the crimson beauty.

 

A foggy mirror reflects,

beams of radiant moonlight,

through the evaporating tea and milk,

 we used to drown all of our problems.

 

There's no cycle here,

no spinning wheel to,

repeat the same story.

 

There's nothing to reinvent, 

no foundation for this to ride on,

and no carriage pulled by wild horses,

symbolic of our deepest desires and dreams,

now withering and dying in the cracks of love's floor.

 

No heart beats,

beneath floor-boards,

of cryptic, rotting elegance,

to alert the proper authorities.

 

Something is screaming,

deep within my soul however,

and I'm begging for an outlet;

It will die between these lines.