Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

Only night can make us whole again.

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.

On Halloween, witches come true; Wild ghosts escape from dreams. Each monster dances in the park.

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.

Joy requires one to be awake, Adjusting the heart's ambience to bright. Some prefer the dark, as is their right, On grounds of agony, and to forsake Not only bliss, but all that's blessed by light.

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