More than words, dear Faustus,
they are worlds.
Though sometimes in mine mind’s eye
the difference is slim;
And based on a whim the pen becomes the
the sword from which he faced his match,
from then the dance was the eerie prance of those guided
by destiny, my dear Quinton.
More than fire it becomes the desire to
thumb through histories of what she lives for,
they are whirlwinds taking ships to the harbour
of truth, which when beheld become the dots by which we draw
pictures in the dark with our blood
These thoughts, my dear Serenity,
they are love.