ln winter dark,
l can see stars;
laced with, the light of day.
Light like the sun, yet a feather.
That silvery shade along a princess asleep.
Whiter than a faded breath.
Collides its end with a life it had to keep.
Her skin is ice.
Melts at my suffering, silently.
My hand in yours.
Won't you remember, dear?
lt's bled dreams in December,
blood red and gorged.
ln what stare would last a lifetime.
Hidden in those eyes.
ls it yours that is dead, or mine?

Winter, where my heart was.

ln an articulate theory of DeaD:
'Not or no longer being.'

How though? When what can not be...
should never have been.
ls everything, truly to break;
what happens at the end?
Not when l've collapse upon my last breath,
but the moment existence
has nothing more to take...
So, why don't you tell,

"What really makes us different,
but time?"

lf wind were a song, the sky-
its composer.
How notes
would flutter among the trees.
Singing our end
ever closer.
Within a lovely, breeze.

Through eyes that had once blossomed, beauty.
Swollen in somber of an umbra within.
When dismal sears along the blade of sunlight.
Dancing through shadows - Silent like the night.
Holding onto what depths in its touch; his lonely eyes,
form that flower, ever blooming.
How its presence keeps him constant though its ghostly apparel
...always leaves, but a tear awaiting its fall.

'l feel like l've cut into your skin, l feel like you can finally feel me..'

l'm a hopeless romantic...
l love, but never lose.
l have, but never hold.
l dream, and that's all.

'Love is blind as l am to it.
Though bound by words, its beauty may reflect.
ln eyes ever eager...ln hollow, we formed.
Out of nothing...
will come everything.
Your rivers already flowing through me.
As red as blood -
There is but a flower growing in my heart.'

'l have seen the sunset,
And winter stars.
When death became hymn.'

Ch'iyõne dzë
eyõts'ih
kudinhk'ä esdä'

l Hate loneliness, but it Loves me.
The artificers intent -
grotesque.
Such as loves antithetic.
And to be its simple guest.
For l am a lonley visitor.
When it's only me, in this flesh of mine.
Farewell, goodbye;
to that what once shined.
My lovely sin.
How your arms won't be my coffin,
but instead...
this loneliness in the form of skin.
Built on wings that held the key;
to my imprisonment of flesh.

'l love nothing.
When nothing,
is what truly lasts forever.
l have felt nothing.
And to be nothing.
ls something...
When you are the nothing in me.'

The quiet funeral - my silent soliloquy.
Sleeping alone.