You'd kill a blind man?
One you made believe held your love in his hands?
You'd impair sensitive ears?
Ones you once whispered sentiments he held so dear?
Ah, but alas, I see you now, clearly.
You paint only in grays, your heart's canvas is weary.
You would wish him ill.
Because you are wicked.
Jaggedly defined by your self-serving mind.
You would make him weep.
Because you are vile.
Misshapen and sour, your soul molds by the hour.
You would tear him down.
You would cause him pain.
You'd allow his life to slip from his veins.
You live to serve singularly.
Because you never learned.
The meaning of it all is to love and be loved.
For this, my heart weeps.
For you have been deprived.
Take my ire.
Then my pity next in line.
