It is but a dream of yester-day,
A feeling for which bares me nay,
A moment of peace for which speaks to me,
And sings its enchanting songs of what used to be.

It is but a voice of whom whispers in my ear,
The lost tale of thee that of which I shall never share,
The scene of thee that of which I shall never paint,
For 'pon the whites of purity shall I dare not to taint.

It is but a daunting gift from an unnamed Someone,
For which shall nothing appears 'fore thy mind when all is done.
Hence, 'tis forsaken bounty shall be'st what is left to seize,
-- Twin daggers for which reminds me of but twin seas.

Alas -- It is but a gnawing death that shall forever tread,
The dark midnight trails, housing the demons I hath bred.