Within, the Secrets of Whim

As to when, the pen falls eerily. The sadness of lust, a perilous dusk for thee that settles upon the many wary. As Edgar's Lenore, reminded, the Crow's greed and nestle. There spied the Raven, crying for thee the more merrily. When lovers' qualm exacted by traitor, the courtships of evermore befallen. The arduous array of made up serenity. This fate of endeavor, by virtue a Luciferus fate for all. As pride brings forth the epic of death, an epitome of angel tyranny. As hurt and loss gives way to pain and admiration, the feelings of turmoil to squall, as decadence and poetic duration. When the fruit of thine, your own merriment of pleasure, the tragedies of myth, of present, and of now, found only to riddle life's cessation. Of need, of ignorance, of majesty, an infinity of the divine. There lies within, the secrets of whim, shared your good wife to mine. As the penniless plot the treasure of devilish wanton, a fortuitous abandon of thee, perhaps a chance prick, nay an Edgar once daringly. . . a ripe shaft of vein. When the virtue of nothingness, outwits the logic of reason, there lies the devil grinning amidst treason. As Gods shed their Grace, and Goddesses parlay the hearkened measure. The knowledge of gay ole Lucifer, their brother, their undine of Seraphic treasure. As the winds that chime and as the clouds that billow, questions we can not, our love the lesser.