These repetitive patterns of sanity
That often begs to be juxtaposed
With the lure of beauty.
With the desire of knowledge.
With the knowing of love..
With the being of silence.
Oh this magical crux of reality
Lonely, lost, this magical afternoon.. By the dusty bedside, to the champagne glasses that haven't seen a toast, to clouds that have forgotten the presence of the sun, this ever pervading romantic ways in which I seek my own sadness- I dance with grief, every night, in the presence of the milky white crescent moon for a new morning's delight.