And here I'm stuck at twilight
the moon and the sun battle with their ugly bright
light, shedding distortion onto the ground

in which life has abandoned me
and sound has lost it's pure novelty
I call it witching hours

for my soul is forced to root these black flowers
into the ground, and surely if goodness and mercy
were to dissolve me, I would just disappear

For these roots are manacles to an unrequited fate
they poison the ground as my sins
run chalky and mutilated;they wait

for my soul to buckle and float
where the wind still holds its staid forces
breathing at my empty entity

Finally, the stars have gained back their glory
and the moon dominates the skies, for it
knows the sun wishes for my absence,

sees the words carved into my bones
shining its light in ethereal tones.
I will be lost to pure bliss, kissed
by damaged purple memories.