When my insides creak and groan,
like an assailant found in a domestic haven,
I lose myself in a candle flame.
The flames— like an auburn lock.
Her hair silently swings, kissing the dark,
painting it in aureate hues.
As quickly sparked, as quickly snuffed.
My watery lens aided the brazen flame’s coalescing with the encroaching ebony.
The christening cold that ensues is blatantly black.
All that I’m left with is an illusion that’s seared into my sight:
Her hair silently swings, kissing the dark.
It’s violently violet and inherently dichotomous to the nothing that is before.
The only thought that swirl with the umbra:
To be cast adrift a gloom, or to cherish a grandiloquent ghost?