What becomes of a soul when it finds true
Its whole is less than the sum of its parts
Seeking blood through a flame, heated and blue
And meter finds this anew when prose starts

Soliloquy, a phobia, a thought
Is everything a callous writhing
Such as this imagination has wrought
And all we see is red, this old tithing

As I was struck by fire with no way out
I knew that I was trapped, and still I found
That none were there to hear my silent shout
As my voice hidden by glass had no sound

And they weren't there to shatter, hear my pain
The flame was a soul, a heart stolen twain