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

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

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.

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.

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