By candlelight I write

late into the night

as the wax weeps

molten tears into the

hollowed skull

watching me

with hollowed sockets,

jet black in an ivory face.

Chimes toll the witching hour,

though it is no spell I craft.

My eyes grow heavy with sleep,

but the characters dance

a noble duet

even as the darkness

envelops us all.

They spin, and fall,

and fade

until the coming of a new day,

full of promise

to begin the pas-de-deux


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