In the darkness, there are mournings.

Mournings for those hidden things, things between walls and floors.

To grieve for a shadow of an existence temporary, is akin to grieving for one's own death before it comes about.

Mournings are for light, shining and sheening, like reflections in glass.

Yet we cannot help ourselves from lamentation. We are nothing but the produce of emotion; plants still in the night.

What else can be said, for drifting and growth. What else can be said, for the mournings at night?

Close your eyes tight, lest the dark ever bright, for in shadow and shade, we can lament only night.