Sitting under the spell of mist,

Amplified by the luminescent light of cresent moon,

We debated the half told lies,

And we advocated the teaching of pride,

And to bolster our fragile argument

Of moulded glass,

We wielded the flaming sword of icy desires,

And the armor of impotence.

And when the silent watcher

Wished to illuminate the one thing we didn’t desire,

The flesh ashened.

The flesh ashened,

Yet we were immune to raw truth,

The flame of all that we seek,

Drifted through the air like a dandelion.

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