Lyrical as a slow thought fermenting,
disciples fabricated like wistful dreams,
to give the night its spell,
for moonbeams hold no substance
but find splendor in the morning's kiss,
indulges spirits with worldly dressing,
just as eventide has its own awakening,
this reprisal found in what's not discovered,
for elations born from expectations,
all kindred spirits to the eternal calling,
forever debating that which should not be known,
our scaffold made by fear's old bones
and mirrors life's equality,
always witnessed at sunset
and the daylight's last breath.