Dark melodies, haunting,
caress lost souls
within a melancholy vacuum.
Strength and fragility combine
with minor harmony
to ease minds less troubled.
This gift of yourself,
writhing, dark longing,
as you ache for decay.

Beauty all but forgotten 
by the pens that brought your demise
as they pick at your bones
re-running self destruction
in front page spectaculars.

Lone death is not your legacy,
a symptom of the silence you craved,
now unending.
Seattle's lights dimmed in your wake
it's brightest flame guttered,
reviled in tabloid taunts and tales of lonely rooms.

Still you walk in the halls of the jaded,
weaving life between scars 
a saviour to the unsaved,
our hearts desires brandished
within passions voice, eternal.

*"My gift of self is *****, my privacy is raked
And yet I find, yet I find repeating in my head,
If I can't be my own, I'd feel better dead"