Purified or destroyed by fire. You decide on the 
evidence. A child bride, some Freudian ire. Summarized in 
a burning bed. Blazing sheets, all our glowing springs 
beneath. And cinders flying up the wall. It's no surprise 
that our histrionic rise became my meteoric fall. Down in 
flames, down in flames. Consign to ashes every claim. She 
dressed in red on the day that we wed. And beneath the 
nightsky's crimson wing the opalescent moon, the 
goatsucker's croon—how could anyone help but sing? Down 
Posthumous rumours of the son that could have saved you. 
Sustained an insult in the womb. Wounded pride. A co-
worker's suicide. And other things he beat you to. You 
know that vine that you always did admire—that suffocates 
the competition? Propped up on their bones, it reaches 
for the sky? That's you alright, sister. I've looted my 
life to the very walls to find the nidus of my 
discontent. I do recall that I had the gall to give up 
church for lent.