I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart.
Her arms were lined with scars, curved perfectly with the Reaper's Scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.

And isn't that the story?
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither. So where do I belong?
A young woman- no longer a girl- never graced by lips in adoration or sympathy.
Never known love,
what is love, really?

Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this bricked up wall,
invisible to certainty and all the passerby.
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
This wall is too **** high.  
Just like the last guy.

And I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love but it was wasted,
Like the last man I tasted.

She was dead before she was born.
What a cold heart,
She's never warm.
She found the world, but it was broken.
She found love, but it was wasted,
Like the man.

And they say the devil's sword is the coward's cop-out,
But death makes cowards of us all.
"To be, or not to be, that is the question"
To be! The coward's reaction,
To not! Fierce condemnation.

O, insanity,
Beautiful calamity,
What fine lines etched thin.

Spark with me a fire,
Strike in me a tier,
Concomitant fear-
Vade mecum Desire.

I said;
'My soul will belong to whom first holds my body,
My body will belong to whom first holds my heart.
My heart will belong to whom first holds my mind,
My mind will belong to whom first holds my attention.'

Stolen;
Was I,
My mind,
My heart,
My body,
My soul.

Now, I vow;
'I will belong to no one.'

What is man but brilliance,
Resting upon fingertips,
Painted and sewn into the fabric
Of Time's lonely silhouette?

The fabric that writhes,
And whispers,
Stories cascade from his tongue-
Nature's waterfall.

He is naught but an old man
Weaving in his hand a thread-
The past, the present, the future,
A rope.

Tangible is the man, standing.
Labored are the breaths, laying-
Veins paint withered hands blue.
The cries of a dying man
Resonate with a singular purity.

The standing man walks,
Kisses a man now deceased.
Wipes his hands, lips clean-
With a note of finality-
Leaves.

Everything is real,
But everything is false.
The contents of the cut-up hourglass
Stick to the beat of my hand,
Running through sands,
Like the tick-tock of a well-worn clock,
Nothing ever lasts.

The rose in loom of a razor blade,
Cut deep into the name of that
Recently deceased, elderly man.
The rose in name of the razor blade
Cut deep into the palm of his hand,
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is real.
But nothing ever lasts.