Moonlight draped streets,
remind of those crumpled sheets.
Where we lay that last time,
that last night of our lives.
Now we amble along this world in the haze,
flittering in and out of people's gaze.
Recycling the night when death came to call,
repeating the process that caused us to fall.
It was frightfully cold,
as far as I can recall.
So, on that fateful eve,
we retired to bed.
A candle we did leave.
Flames tore at the room,
hungry they consumed
every scrap, every shred,
as we lay asleep in our bed.
We never see sunlight,
only the darkness of night.
We wander these rooms in silent anguish,
before the rise of dawn where we simply vanish.
Until the night falls,
when the cycle repeats
and we walk these halls
hand in hand
to the sound of scared shrieks
and that all too familiar smell
of those scorched bedsheets.
Thanks for reading
Peace, Love and Poetry
Kyle
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