It speaks familiar words, this ghost of pride bereft of all it had surmised; no rhyme or reason unto its own accord

Soft hymns of fate fall short their own innate value, wrought with seething dissonance and disdain; but they're never spoken

Clenched fists, eyes with lonely souls, hearts with sullen cries of hope; they unfold without remorse nor splendid candor

All things left behind, intentions fall short of their meaning; once again, romance finds such morose yet somber, gleaming demise