Lonely letters look out into a pair of eager eyes,

They wait nervously in anticipation of the coming rain,

Swelling in boisterous excitement of the breaking of their silence,

To once again escape solitude, to give rise to a frantic cacophony,

Of vowels and consonants in search of the sanctuary of

Syllables,

Syllables,

Seeking more syllables,

Desperate for a familiar sound,

Lusting after the sensations of sentence.

There is a place where time ceases to exist,

Where horrors do not flicker upon screens,

Neither do obstacles gnaw away,

At our resolve to achieve dreams,

And is too distant for the reach of sirens, cries, and screams,

It does not begin and it does not end,

Nor does it have corners, lines and seams,

It is in a state of constant change,

yet remaining forever the same,

A perfect place for an honest minute,

Free from the Midas hand of man.

Her amber glow shines beneath black snow,

I inhale her deep she kills me slow,

She laces my breath with the bitter scent of Death,

Cushion to my thoughts sedative to my stress,

A Sun to my darkest moments burning brighter with each kiss,

She transfixes me in the beguiling dance of her poison mist.