I found a book of poems
in a beautiful heart wood chest
And written across its sturdy lid
Was the word "hope", like sunday best

Upon this book of poems
Lay a velvatine writting pen
And vials of ink from distilled life
For writing letters to her friend

When I went to read her words
 I discovered the lock on it
The key she gave that opened her room
Was never the key that would fit

So I put her poems back
I was nothing more than a guest
And with the blood that ran from my eyes
Next to "hope", I wrote the word "less".