Decadence filters through hushed hours, bemoaning and ired by but unrequited hopes for and by strangers. Listless, yet never lifeless, the heart pines for whispers although it fears the wager, and lo it still defaults to all it endangers. Lust and greed are found as sick bedfellows to this ever craving, never sated, fervored love to cherish and celebrate cold portals where beauty is held, but found too bountiful for this roving, wandering eye and wanton flesh, so with each frame, I am felled.
