Thus our hearts be when devoid of love,

Flickers of love wither away like lavenders in November

Like an apparition, love exists not within us.

Even as our senses relax in false comfort

The mind is apprehensive

We are phished by the taste of purple liquids.

Thus not that we wither away

But squandered

Unable of any thought nor emotion.

As our nostrils fume like chimneys

We inhale death as a virgin to a daisy

Our minds perambulate in displeasure

Seeking what to pleasure itself.

Thus, we are caught in a moment

In a cycling of the hour above the second

Where we stare into absolute nothingness.

Speaking unheard muttering

Except the fading wind as it kisses our lips.

Transfigured into a gloomy expression of ourselves

We are trapped in a universe of garbled thoughts

Even as we scream for help

No one dares reach into our minds

We are thus trapped in the catacomb of the mind

Haunted by phantoms of frittered time.

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