The candle burnt only to show the skin, that glittered in its light.

Light that reflected off the sweat of two bodies, two companions of the moon, two passionate lovers.

Lovers whose bounds have never been set, or challenged; by their spouses, suitors or by any other.

Other nights, they might spend bored in the luxury or their lives, where only a fantasy would help them pass the time; a fantasy that came true tonight.

Tonight their moans echoed, echoed and echoed above all other sounds.

Sounds such as, the steps approaching, the door screeching and the paper crumbling, in the opposite corner of the room.

The room, that was filled with heavy air, was slowly filled by the smell of burnt paper, a written conviction.

Conviction on grounds of infidelity sharpened the knife.

The knife, that now bloodied, ended the passion of the night by the candle.

How can I write what’s too heavy on my heart,

too close to my soul?

My ace in the hole was my card up my sleeve,

too perfect to be,

or so I’ve been told.

‘Wreath’ I will call him, to hold the tongues in check,

to spare me some grief.

Blasting that hit by that group of groups, Black Crowes,

we, armed to the teeth ...

This romance was hot!

He tried to let on how bewildered he'd got,

but I was clued out.

The paper he burnt with a candle OF MINE,

(he ‘lit my candle’),

burnt on my birthday!

That burnt piece of paper still smolders inside,

alongside my heart.

A murder of crows I bid come to me now,

would that they would come! ...

to proffer a close.