Her heart is lost to my weary hands
Undiscovered solace remains as such
She is the Queen of my unattainable dreams
The vexing silence precedes me

Our hearts sleep in separate rooms
Such blissful schemes are stranger than fiction
My descent into madness is afoot
I hung my heartstrings from the ceiling

My intention missed the bus again
I abandoned my heart's reconstruction
And, confined in the menagerie of her solace:
I will be devoured by the bowls set for Babylon

The future has written itself
I was written off in the final chapter
But, I still dream, in turn:
Of holding Her heart in my weary hands...