She will creep out of the shadows,
When least expected,
Wearing but a golden tiara,
And the phantom ring of love,
Given by the glory sun,
She will greet her poetic brother,
Her once poetic lover,
Some bizarre folks, both of them,
They're not like any other,
Should she crumble?
like a dried out biscuit,
She can only risk it,
Never was a stalker,
Nor a street walker,
She needs to come,
To lay to rest the ghosts of what once was,
So true.
Darling, you're killing me slowly,
Not softly, hell it's making me blue!
(C) Livvi