It seems fitting that a poet's pen...
Dipped in tears and blood again...Would paint a sky the clearest blue...And grant a soul the perfect view.Deception lies in words between...We see, what we hope remains unseen...Pain claims its place, though, uninvited...A heart is crowned... its core ignited.Beguiling words precise... incite...Nurture addiction, a mortal vice...Fate's cruel hand impairs- awakened memory...Assails heart and mind with flawless audacity.Remorse now floods forsaken eyes...Angels above, somber, recognize...Our many shades... our borrowed face...The empty settings we fervently chase. Poets rage ...as pages yellow with imminent age... Yet still, the final curtain must fall on stage...Pity! Neither verse, nor beauty, Not even fortune or charming witNot tears, Not prayers, nor bewailed guilt,Afford us a candle forever lit.
