I would listen to a milion songs for you,
but not one had an ending.

I thought about love...

It tortures us.. we hurt ourselves for love.

Without love, life would pass with so little pain.

There is a hole in my hand,
where anothers belonged.
And it's cold, as I am,
and alone.

The bitter ice eats at me,
accuses me of murder.
Seeking revenge it plagues my sleep.
Where I cannot close the window,
and the snow curls around my brow.

leaving me...

My muse...

A dried rose...

kills me with the memory of its thorn.

forgive my life.