Beams of rejoicing light were banished from the pale faces of taunt skin, And caverns of orbs clouded with the numbed mist of remember joy. Of days where we danced, the winds as fairy linen. The haunts of healthy limbs, a fresh skin of pleasured nerves, and the youth of a boy. The past made present was a horrible organ to remove, and it drove home the nature of our plight. The mighty expanse of gray was a panner's fruitless search for a hint of wealth.
Fantasies are golden rays of natural illumination.
I would, those fantasies fill my sorry eyes. A shimmer in that stronghold of despair would be valued more than a lottery of riches. My body broke that morn the flame forgot to rise. A trade, for a glimpse where light is a wasted thing, sell me as one of the devil's bitches. A prescription for that glorious substance would be the treatment to restore my health.