Grasp

Secrecy in desires haunts the majority,
While mindless freaks - tiptoe through the night, embracing their normalcy.
Where has the dying gone? Are they in purgatory, or in a heavenly bliss?
A substantial question which lingers the minds of the inquisitive. The entire flawless fallacies that creep through our demonic obsessions.
Beauty dances in the night with skeletons hand in hand,
Preciously tiptoed, in Pointe shoes- slowly dancing out of our closets.
Freakishly beautiful in the night, as the pale moon shimmers from a distance, through the window of lovers.
Why have you betrayed us, sweet sun?
The stars are the only flaming, glimpses of hope, the dead grasp onto for life.