she had tried to be the artist
Wore a stripe of each rainbow
A vast fleur of passion
That bloomed like no other

But no soul gave her water
Thus her tones had to faint
succumb to the grey
All her colour stripped away

She fell into the mad-mush
Packed with diesel-driven haze
Where hollow men drink for dinner
And the blondes sell their flowers

In this mass, found astray
She lost her vows and hours
The nights became her days
The bitter made her sour

One of many, yet so alone
Stripped to the body-
Crammed into bones

He tore her pages
Until the sturdy cover
Was all that remained

my wand'ring mind
her wand'ring soul
in our harbored hive
where we're in control

we don't mind the eyes
hiding in the skies
slipping out their tears
drawn to dying coal

no lust to fear
for i know i'm here
cradling the tears
next to my pretty-o

behold the silent gift
to feel any lone soul roar
deeper than before

those are not my tears
on your soft-made skin
but they're close to mine

just like our love—
paper-thin,
and far too dry

how can this man without a story
be fit to be your lover?
when you knew i never judged
not even by the cover

still you tore away our pages,
left them for me to grieve,
in paper tears