Black lights floating on a memory,
Where neon rests on a night of foam.
Played the wrong card,
And now I'm left with a cracked board.
A faded white glow,
Spawned from tree and stick,
Where crying for one's mother,
Is really to become their nature.
Crying a cry that can only drop the tear,
But only when blood flows from a duct.
I guess in the end sense is black,
But waiting for her keeps a box without mail.