Long tendrils languishing in fire
the coarse wind set against us, excites;
in concert, we begin to gossip and conspire.

Would it be best we act at night,
when eyes refuse to see such subtleties,
beneath the somber tones of the moon’s pale light?

Or would the day be enough to appease?
The brighter things keeping errant minds entertained,
just as flowers incite the lust of bees.

Perhaps the twilight hides our greatest gain,
the way it moves, like slurred speech,
what we do then, might seem less insane.

Or, is it that in this, no peace can be beseeched?
whenever, however, we choose to retire-
it is a bitter end we reach.