Strange Strangeness and not a little Charm,
Trapped in aching breaking silence:
Filaments blinding and blind,
Swaying uncertainly among glass statues
And wafting transforming haze,
Weaving scorpion dances dubiously. 
Until we meet, discovering true distance
Strewn untidily with bleached bones and memories. 
Hastily-erected masks crumble ignominiously,
Blown and mushroomed into gargoyles by stale air,
Leaving two naked, self-kindling filaments,
Trapped in vacuum filled by time and others,
Excluding colours and shadow, liquefying sound
Into perfunctory syllables and silence.