The blade's edge, a younger ghost,
not life sought, nor a plea for most.
Not death's dark call, though lies might claim,
but love's few faces held a different flame.
Five souls tethered, a fragile thread,
for them, this burning building, I'd instead
stand, and let the slow char begin,
than leap to safety, and let their horror spin.
They see the hurt, but time, they say, will mend.
Yet roots of pain, where do they end?
If need itself, a human core,
becomes the wound that festers evermore?
Why does love, the lauded, wished-for prize,
so often end in tear-stained skies?
One lost to death, the other left to grieve,
a pain I recoil from, I can't believe.
So let me wound myself, they'll call it mad.
Perhaps it is, this path I've sadly had.
The truest gift, a love I'll never find,
no name to whisper, no touch to bind.
Did you see it then, this twisted grace?
Does love still wear the same familiar face?
