In the state of remorse,
the howls shatter
glasses of nightly silences,
the white floating sphere
conjures the dead,
the living and
all things existing
in between,

near the window,
my breath now sighs my restlessness
and imprints it on the mirrors
of existence,
the dearth of materialism within,
tickles the soul
into a mocking laugh
that echoes in corners of sleeping valley,

maybe that is what,
requiem for a dream is,
and maybe that is why,
the wolves howl in moonlight.