Under the velvet of night, where shadows dance and secrets murmur

Under the velvet of night, where shadows dance and secrets murmur, Lies the playful essence of the deepest consciousness, unbound by reason or constraint, A fire of frivolity, flickering and blazing within us all, The blood-consciousness, the primordial pulse, a mischievous glow. Sex, an enigma wrapped in the warmth of our playful existence, Is the night’s playful consciousness, when the soul flirts with the edge of sleep, A fire, both ancient and whimsical, igniting the core of our being, Communicating in glimmers, in warmth, in the silent laughter of the flesh. In this twilight realm, where the mind surrenders to playful whims, We touch the sacred and the sensual, the esoteric beauty that defies the mundane, This glow, this fire, becomes a radiant beacon, And in that radiance, we sense the true, frivolous beauty of existence. We carry this fire, a living spark, through the years, Whether smoldering or blazing brightly, it remains, A beacon of life, of warmth, of playful connection, Even at ninety, it flickers, reminding us of our primal essence. But if this fire dies, extinguished by the cold touch of disconnection, We become those living husks, Wandering without warmth, without the glow of life, A lament for the living dead, whose fire has been snuffed out by the world. In the stream of consciousness, where thoughts flow like a capricious river, We return to this fire, to the blood-consciousness, Feeling its warmth, its glow, its undeniable presence, A reminder that in the deepest night, when the soul flirts with the edge of sleep, Lies the playful essence of our being, the esoteric fire of life.