Ardent Yet Chill And Formal,

Think Of The Moment You Count Most Foul In Your Life; Conjure It, Supplicate, Pray To It; Your Face Is Bleak, You Retract, You Dare Not Remember It.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?