Call your fault, for down below...yourself lingers.
Match to light, black to grey, seemingly nothing exists in a chasm like it — before.
But there's dispondence in pleasure, mortal forms in selfless acts.
A way to find hope, have it, incarnated with the thing it was stilled. Does your nature change when you are thrust into the light? Or...
Is whatever is laying in your subtleties, ache? New? Newer? Than before?
The messenger wasn't a cause for a dispondence, but your love for her made you forget the very thing that made black, light.
Your other equal, her last footing to get past you, heed a call or forever live on top the acres, no - mounds of doubt that brought you to her all again.
You were an equal, and oh — how it has shot you down.