As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night, Let loose upon the Earth till it be light.

By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again.

...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.

Only night can make us whole again.

Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why?

Hobgoblins know the proper way to dance: Arms akimbo, loopy legs askew, Leaping into darkness with delight, Lusting for the ecstasy of fright, Open to the charm of horrors new.

Mothers are the place that we call home. On them we rest our heads and close our eyes. There's no one else who grants the same soft peace, happiness, contentment, sweet release, erasing righttime tears with lullabies, restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.