Through the waxing, through the waning    amidst blackness a spark emerged.   And we heaved death's branches upon the skyward flames.   A haunting memory left as bile on the sand.       Feeding this fire on shores of desire, this blissful, painful night.    Winter's fangs may find me again, but it won't be tonight.    Illusion and shame will haunt me again, but it won't be tonight.      We will meet at mornings early, slain by grievance's shore   and crowned and crucified as the sea calls once more.   Alive in the tide from whence the wind came.   And crowned and crucified and stretched by shelter's grave.