Caves are no place for dreams
for in the darkest corners, there dwells Fate.
With neither night or day to cleanse
the deep, no balance can be struck.
In its void, the cyclic substitution
of lover's touch for something else--
a warm spray that reeks of red
but is not seen, is merely felt,
a presence mundane to a fault
now made utterly alien in its poor context,
a sensation so pleasant, made atrocious by its source.

And love's laboured breath at last escapes
its wounded corpse in room's darkest corner.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Daedalan, in the year 304 AF.