From the beginning, I have known,

That the state of happiness, is a lie.

For if happiness was real, and I could have it,

there would be no tears in my face, no tears in the sky.


With the tear atop my iris,

and my vision of the world, it cruelly shrouds,

All I can feel is the suicidal morning rain.

Flowers in my garden, drowning in tears from the clouds.


My heart is deeply wounded,

like wounded was the heart of Poe.

O, his pain, always bleeding on his words,

O, his pain, I thought I'd never know.


Return to my arms, my love, my dear,

with my broken heart, this is all I implore.

Or the fields, I shall ask, if my misery will ever end,

*Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'