Dripping with poison, your tongue dances
amongst syllables of lust and loathing,
carving through the cold, dark air
like a scimitar through tangled lianas.
We both thought the day would take away the pain
and yet we still find the evening twilight relieving.
We throw ourselves naked into the moonlight
and dance in the trees as a world
we knew once upon a dream
tears itself apart.

How dark the night shines bright,
teeth glimmering in the fragile moonlight.
We drink to Paris and her friends everlasting,
memories of sadness and terror.
In faultless lies and dismembered truths,
we scavenge for a parable for comfort.
You sing La Marseillaise with an accent of affection,
as if you know the meaning of the sound you make.
But the light of the fire dies out, as it always does,
and scatters our shadows into the forest
and dowses us in a peculiar shade of darkness.

It clings to us like a cloak,
a veil of sorrow covering our eyes
and blurring what has yet to be seen.
Dripping with poison, your knife glistens
as it cuts a head off the hydra.
How dark the night, we sing,
tiptoeing into the undergrowth.
How dark the night.