If I could compare thee, my darling muse,
to but one object I find in constant use,
t'would be the knife, my Love,
the one you hold in that blood-stained glove.

Your whispers are more screams,
that haunt me through my waking dreams.
Your advice.. it's not nice,
Much like your defensive wall of Ice.

So, to you my darling sweet,
I am glad we rarely meet.
For you are a harbinger of pain,
that blocks out my merry sunshine with her rain.