Shall I mourn for the fading whiteness,

sweeping across the floor,

the mystery, its hold on me

and the associated pain it brings,

Shall I dance to its icy coldness,

the probing lecherous claws that dismember,

the little dear redness inside the cage,

or do I pounce on the dark sleuths,

beloved sins of a dark alley prince,

and wait till it all makes sense?

or do I let the next morning erupt,

in sunny warmth, familiar smiles and sickly monotony?

to what end and which fragment of me, I need to be?

the lame virtuous or  the wicked monstrosity?