My heart writhes of pain, in the chilling fire
The fire for which she gathered, tinder
My quill and his ink froze, in the chilling fire
The fire which she gathered for my pyre.
My vellum sits bone-dry, in the chilling fire
Her fire, which burns my voices to cinder

Every fortnight, I see her glistening eyes
Reciting a monotonous sonnet of grey
That sonnet would never ever suffice
In sheathing me from her stagnant voice
As she smothers my final embers of life
As she “graces” me staleness from life’s fray

Her brushed hair, smooth in bronze.
Her florid face, baroque and supple.
Her lips, curled to a fluttering smile
Her gait, silent, steady and subtle
Her eyes, icy daggers skewering my heart
Her fingertips, flames freezing my breathe

I await in void as her hand rests on mine
Glaring the gloaming sky with heavy eyes
She drained my soul into a dead mine.
But... she birthed my precious Daphne
A shallow stream began from my dry eyes
“I miss our waltz, I always did, Ania.”

The ink on my quill began its flows
My heart repose, as my Ania mellows.
But sorrow, clutch me, she was my Ania
I shall see her very soon, in our meadows
We will have our Final Waltz, Ania
Yes, Ania; Our joyous waltz to Follia.

Except for the Nobel Peace Prize,
Which carries a hefty prize money,
No other Nobel Prize is given by the rich Norwegians,
Presented are the rest by the Swedish,
And the Norwegian award just the Nobel Peace Prize.
Alfred Nobel had died in the guilt,
The guilt of inventing such death.

The look of sane
and perfect skin
Comes your way
well within

Take the step
but don't look down
Vertigo spinning
Madness sound

Beauty kills
with steps of cold
Off the edge
boldness goes

Insanity sinks
the devilish plot
Watch again
Alfred Hitchcock