A Book Of Terrible Things

Through the eye; a silver thread, A fragile reminder of reveries put to bed, From corridors footfalls have already tread, As sacred and profane are wed, Shifting reality; separate then blend, The dissonance to which our screams lend, A sense of relief; a beginning to an end, Pantomime; a charade of a soul we seek to mend. -Josef Desade, Mirties Kauke