Isaac, Honorbeary, Tally, Ferdy, Blanky

A tired soul has drowned

in a lake of ink, cold,

and drunk with soberness, it dreamt

one-fold,

two-fold,

three-fold -

philosophers, philosophasters,

idealisms, the world to mould.

With a cynic's eye, he glanced around

and a skeptic's face did welcome him.

And he looked

and he gazed

and he bore a hole into her mind

as she did, his,

with lies violently false,

with truths painfully true.

After all the phantasies have died down,

and reality has taken its toll,

"What is there left to love?"

To every corpse said the soul.

"I don't know." She replied.

"What does it even mean to love?"

That flame that burned within my soul,

once red, turned blue;

once dead, yet grew.

With a kiss, we married,

and with a kiss, we divorced.

But the child pulled us together.

We put down our indifferences.

We loved the child,

and finally learned to love,

not with the old fire of youth,

but with the new flame of old,

receiving nothing in return.

And thus concluded our simulation.

The recollection of a long lost memory,

of family.

Or a newfound hope for a new species

of love?

"No matter," we sigh.

"But something is better than none."

With tired eyes, we resonated with each other,

with kindred souls as one.