This is no poem,It's simply an idle thought:I think that I still miss you.
These hands have grown old,Having done nothing worthwhile,But write loveless poetry. My eyes grow weary,Having shed so many tears,You're hardly worth the pity. My heart is heavy,Having borne so many hurts,It's now a knot of old scars. Then rejoice, old friends,Winter is a time for rest,A brief relief from the pain.
I hope she's happy,In whatever hell she's in,Damnably cozy. One day he'll recall,That I went to hell and back,While he rots in place.
Gracefully you fly,My dark hawk against pale sky,Never again to return. Broken wings will heal,Just as broken hearts will mend,Time is healer of all things.
For my arrogance,He reached for the stars above,Black skies filling empty hands. Within this hollow,Filled with your endless desire,A pale flower blooms like blood. I offer my eyes,Covetous, life-drinking orbs,Gleaming the shade of lost dreams.
This 'cursed fever,Breaks upon my mind's shoreline,Dragging away every thought. I wish you were here,Not to tend to ailing bones,But nurse my spirit anew. I lie here dying,Wondering of my last death:My name on your lips, no more.
I reclaimed my place,The princess of your black heart,By wit and cunning,I am the Conquering Sword,A faithless exile no more. Lost again, have I?To a ronin with no shame,And no sense of pride.So be it, it's your win, now,In this Game of Love, I'm done.
My pen grows heavy,Even words I write for you,Pulls me into the darkness. Sleep awhile, my love,Dream of distant fantasies,A place to finally rest.
Love is immortal,Child of heavenly romance,Avenger of betrayal. Love, once born, lingers,An undead and haunting thing,That shadows all of my thoughts.
I wish I held tight,Holding you close to my heart,Never letting go, again. Freedom must come first,I am as wind, untethered,,If you loved me, let me go.