In thought you can lift the poor cheated girl above your head,
The flower strains toward your grey iris and it implies a silhouette
Of blue wayward passion,
Of the luke warm pool of it in you,
Your reflection is broken as it has ever been,
But implies the existence of its once intact face
The feeling of your taught whimper gone limp
As the very blink of feeling out from last breath
Has no end, has no faith, as light is only a blanket
And shadow its shivering body,
In finding strength to hold you up
I find the talent to beat you down
And afterwords we will continue,
To tear our lungs apart.