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

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.

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.

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

Love of life at times requires death

Halloween wraps fear in innocence, as though it were a lightly sour sweet. Let terror, then, be turned into a treat.

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?