‘Tis often the flesh upon each cheek
is chased dour, yet sultry memories
As the years aged much of nothing
Had haunted these bones
unknown, unsuspected
Hollow screams were published
By the bedsteads of the red holocaust
Clouds laced with fear
Foreseen ‘twas a fiasco
Versed within aureate calligraphy
Each syllable we’d partake
Defined by moments
When our lips would graze
As we lie in the bedsteads
Fashioned by the finest mirth
Born of cultured artistry