In an attic
where the windows are boarded shut
and the light creeps below the seal.
Swaying against the shadows
Beating in soft-forming rhythm
Are hearts dwell,
and pretty little illusions prey,
Our minds quarry in the shade,
With casts of flickering sun to mirage,
To throw open the draperies,
To bask under the suns gentle rays.
Wounded by the darkness the realm of blackness
Victims of our romance,
Our hearts in irregularity
in a pattern shape.