Promies, never to,
The premise of us to part.
Should I ever leave you,
Let being be dashed-
Against black canvas.
Let blood be
A medium of art.
These shackled hands,
Consequence of circumstance
And everything I have entailed.
Perchance, happenstance-
That which we have lived
And all that was not availed.
The fog of brokenness, and ache of loneliness.
Against reality, we rail.
