This is where love goes to die. In the shadowed eyes of the beast. It carelessly picks at the rotting flesh beneath its nails waiting for the shredded remains of its prey to pass into dust. In its blackened den, our silken dreams of green lawns and feather beds were etched crudely on the stone walls for mockery. Our foolish idealism, we carried on our reddened cheeks, our watery eyes dotted with the careless splashes of impassioned limbs, all of it burned in its heated rage.
But the beast does not act for jealousy or revenge. It is not guilty or innocent. It is fueled only by its instinctive hunger, its taste for the sugary plumes of destruction. It feeds on the desperate reaches of shaken hands. It, like the bursting sun of morning, is cold and inconsiderate to your dreams.