Past the night's last rite,
Alone in the big, old world.
I kept writing my story,
My spark, my memento mori.
In my tale, there was this guy,
Who began exploring a room.
It was an abandoned mansion,
Haunted by the spirits of doom.
He kept searching when he felt
A sharp, tingling sensation inside.
Mixed with an intoxicating scent,
A pull he could never decide.
It became real—the thrill, the feel,
A wedding parody, a fated deal.
In his mind, he saw it happening,
But it faded behind his reckoning.
And it was time for me to stop,
When I too began to feel the same.
Was I writing the story—or was it
Retracing my name?