Sparkle as the tinsle crown blazes from your eyes ,

Gaiety, to be celebrated in our slumber .

Along with the scintillation of your sole sweat ,

The taste of blitheness from it , escalates the purity of It .

It,

the Something I think I know ,

It,

the Something I think I knew ,

It,

A chance still there ?

Could it possibly ?

. . .

The bliss of which has been choking , strangling , fastened , and

Stuck still in the back of my throat to ward all off ,

Is once again, out on my guileless and guideless hands ,

To let go ,

Let see ,

and let happen ?

. . .

Chuckle as my murrhine walls drip of coy tears and expired brume ,

I shudder at the anticipation of a cheerful carnage ,

Carnage of yet, another warm beating still .

Served .

. . .

Maybe ,

Just maybe ,

. . .

Are you there ?

Do you hear me a-calling ,

hope ?