My heart echoes these old haunts. Your
words are stretched to impalpable deeds.
Yes, flame can produce ash—leave a
trail of soot in my mouth as I try to
find my way through these catacombs—
When skeletal figments dance in your
reflection, tell me there is no lie or jest.
The path treaded is marked by poetry
that falls within each step of your
movement, so please be true.