040: 3 days

Within the halls of seeping time,

in the glare of your footsteps,

tonight, on such a sacred night,

my soliloquy resonates so barren;

there's no answer form these tender bricks,

the veins of my temple are sewn shut.

Silver serves the red, to open the skin

of a butterfly wing, of a crimson king,

of an animal fighting its shadow

for the last splinter of sanity.

The night decays, yet you fail to see

how the fireplace caresses still

a newborn ember from yesterday,

petrified to a fractured rhythm;

I don't fear the winter, freeze my tears black,

for you may destroy this temple,

but it will be raised anew,

with every dusk and every dawn,

until the moon drowns away

in silence.