The Flux of Tragedy

A feathered touch, a crescent smile, a royal wine, and subtle
Guile. My crisis love, my impish star, the light is dim, a
Bleeding scar. But flux and tears, our epoch blood, fraught
Wit sorrow, and lustful drums. Thus we perish, and rise in
Death, the ache of love, and mortal breath. And life to soul, a
Cauldron flame, the womb of prose, and tragic pain. And
Heart to blade, the sun has bled, the grave of tears, and
Mortal dread.

The lantern bright, upon the steep, where love is life, and
Demon’s weep. Thus emotion, a well of dreams, fraught with
Passion, and muffled screams. But crisis love, the sole of
Blight, a gilded grave, and sacred plight. And verdant fields,
Awake the heart, and thus we love, the fervent spark. Hence
We perish, the flux of love, alive in death, and shedding blood.