Oh, does a man wonder
If he can ever taste love again
For if he did
Would the ink run dry from his pen
Would his metaphors fall overboard
And sink to the abyss
Oh, how he fears the kiss of warm lips
May deaden his words
And if his manic musings would even be missed
For the only time his wandering mind feels alive
Is when the flowers that bloom
Lay dead inside
Through pain is how he explains
The beauty of a dessert
Longing for rain
He’s played many a game of chess
With the author of his own death
It’s how he learns
The difference between
A cold December nightmare
And living out his dreams
His reality is seen
Through the lines we read between
Labeled aloof
You would be too
If you sat with the truth
And understood
He would rather be him
Then pretend to be you
Imagine a man at peace with every dimly lit street
For even the shadows speak
Subtle, discreet
Lend an ear
Give them a listen
Oh, darkness
Forever painted as the villain
He finds hope in those lonely cold winters
Depressed or obsessed?
For maybe he lives life
As if life were all he had left
Often out of step?
Or unwilling to die on a bed of his own regrets
If only you could feel the fire of passion
That burns in his every breath
We all fade
So, he would rather slow dance with life
On the tip of her blade
For your only ever you
When you forget to be afraid
Long, but I just could not stop writing.