It's the tragedy of youth;
the withering of it,
from the bone-crushing waves
of the mind-weathering poet;
inside his ocean floor
written in chiseled sands,
from the whispers he blew
without his rotten hands;
he wishes of dreams
not for coming true,
but for disappearance
in existence of blues;
he kisses daydreams,
did sex with nightmares
for their beauty's beyond
what reality makes fair;
he loves tragedy;
he lives tortured for art;
when life's steadiness mocked
his old changes of heart,
'guess tragedy no more,
his losses, now hope
for tragedy himself
was not tragic to cope;
my passionate grasp
on his curtain veils,
his lips of moisture
for my dying scales,
tried looking away
my burned runaway groom,
but unspirited were his wings
without my softness for gloom.
