Hopeful Tales from a Hopeless Romantic. It is the game of God, I suppose. To bury the dead under a rose. A punishment perhaps, to the Earth. To have life all around. But inside, only death. I drank all my water and ate my portion. Whatever was left over I gave to the guards. If I am the enemy then sentence me for a crime. Let me serve my time; do not keep me chained like a pet. Wrapping around me in a desperate compulsion to possess me forever.

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How many of us have them? How many of us have them? How many of us have them? Ones we can depend on. How many of us have them? Before we go any further, lets be. I heard this song one day and two words from the hook stuck out to me; how many.

I write with quill and ink. Sleepless, I held you in my arm,. My dark prince of twisted innocence,. Eyes cast upon me prevail without harm,. As we lay with the scent of rose incense. Yet beside me you rose again to leave,. Deity I wish to conquer eludes me,. I wept as the door closes, my heart heave,. Alone I ponder in my wake and I see. You left teaching me about sleeping,. That the stronger wins by hard choice,. The stubborn fool I am, empty and weeping,. Lost through excuses and denied by your voice.

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