The creaking of ,
The staircase plank ;
The stubborn stench,
Of the ale we drank ;
The surreal smile
Of the carpet stain ;
Are the muses that drive ,
Verses of pain .

When the fruits of blindness,
Ripen red;
When fading memories,
Yield up the dead;
Then the potion of regret,
Begins to be brewed ;
Even by Silver Sorcerers,
Of Fallen Solitude.

In the shadow ,
Of every page i tear ;
Your halcyon laughter,
Is all i hear;
For behind the veil,
That hides the scar;
I trace the footsteps ,
To a heart afar .