His dry scope
seared into the alabaster moonlight...
He smiled,
renouncing red ladies of the slighted.
Dispensations of immortal rivers,
tucked lightly within his deepest vein,
coursed screams and laughter through the rocky cliff of his descending soul...
He pined in the dwindling memory, and beautiful was his illusion of morning.
Petals of her blooming glow pulsed in the liquid crimson recesses of his heart...
Patterns of the familiar flame,
long burned into ash,
cold ash, with not an ember one to contend for the air.
She was morning,
and morning will never come again...
