No more need, no other time in history's disfigured face will our lives walk a straight line without folding upon presented signs. We have torn up pathways, departed from arms, sideways into another permanent birth - where we are discontent, to another's worth. Paved roads, white-out on the divide between memories, upon the wounds we hide. Lesser to be another victim's burial to our mark in their arms, for their aching heart. Desperate signs, times desperate for our halt upon the space to our crime, outlined in chalk. Feuding without the fade - to be removed from the space - where we linger for clipboards, for pens, for eyes to examine our end. Recreate the scene, damage the next on the path for beautiful kisses. Relieve the encaged soul on the closest breast. Can you burn faster, as the eye misses the part where you disappoint? Readers in the shadows, before the suspense finds the autumn tree of ashen answers. Radiant one, while I find your shell encasing our tale, echoing our Hell.