Love was always the work of writers,
The likes of which made hearts grow lighter.
But now?
It's become the works of some mathematician
Taking advantage of the human condition
To seek not love but lust and passion
And all manner of things to continue the repression
Of our need for care and kind support,
And our need for a proper loving rapport...
And I fear that I cannot keep up this game
To suppress my heart and become the same
As those grotesque and needy and shallow
(who deserve only to sit in some old rotting Barrow),
For now I sit, an eternity now,
With no one to love because I don't know how
And now I begin to fear and dread
That I'll be cold and alone 'till I turn up dead.