Herbalists' Cache i'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.

left behind (♩) In a dream concerning birth, death and mother figures.

Fire and brimstone often references the fate of the unfaithful;
an idiomatic expression found in holy writ. Astraeus, clay-hewn himself neither formed nor fired. His sense seem to slip through his fingers, and darkness pass thru him like an apparition — and erst he may meet Achlys with a greeting air that their meetings were primeval, figment memoirs are coaxed from the fracturing of his psyche:

Edenic; gloaming, two red-caked hands and amethyst flowers; 
a scene far too quiescent for the tragedy that was featuring in him,
back when he'd realized the passive power of sorrow and shock, goose-pimpled.

He wore the brandy-colored man's death like an albatross around his neck for many a month. And furthermore, was the day he became the word of his mother's body. He'd hung on her treacly smells and how he pushed against her breast needy for hours. But she was a living ghost who had left him bereft of validation in his existence. And that ghost wisps her silver reply in his ear, what a homely duckling.

He doesn't know what, but the twinge in his heart senses love is dead. Sighing in tenebris; laid crumpled with only his care for the world dead.