I see romance where roses decay,
Thorns carve sonnets in petals of gray.
The grave is a bed, the night is my prayer,
I dance with the ghosts who linger in air.

⠄⠄⠄⡠⢄⣒⣠⣤⣔⣒⠠⢀⠄⢀⠠⠐⠂⠉⠉⠁⠄⣒⡀⢄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⡠⣪⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣕⠁⠄⣀⣤⣤⣄⡀⠄⠈⢻⣷⣌⢂⠄
⠰⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⠄⠄⢿⣿⣧⢂
⡇⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠃⢠⠞⠉⠁⣰⡟⠉⣿⣿⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⢸
⢃⠻⠛⠛⢉⠡⠄⠁⠄⠄⠄⠄⠸⣷⣶⡾⠿⣇⠄⠘⣿⠄⠄⣾⣿⡿⠸
⠈⢄⠄⠄⠕⠂⠄⠨⠅⠄⠄⠄⠄⢸⡿⠶⢶⣿⣿⡾⠋⠄⠄⠈⠙⠣⠃
⠄⠈⠢⡀⠄⠄⠉⠄⠐⠂⠄⠄⡄⡿⠄⠄⢨⣿⠏⢠⠄⠄⠄⠄⠔⠁⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠈⠢⡀⠄⠄⠄⢀⡀⠄⡇⡄⠄⢠⠞⠁⡰⠁⠄⢀⠔⠁⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⠐⢄⠈⢿⣯⢆⠇⠁⢀⠂⢀⡞⠄⡠⠐⠁⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠑⢌⢻⣯⠄⠉⠁⠄⠜⡠⠊⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠣⡹⣯⣆⠄⡠⠊⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠪⣛⠧⠑⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄