You walk in frailty’s shadow,
Showing romance in each marvelous step.
Dipping a foot into a milky row,
Of evermore marvelous pain.
What is this fear, in which I feel
For the first moment upon thy naked form?
When you sing such soft notes,
To recede back into the notes of a whimper,
I am here to console,
For that which I stole.
You leak white from the pink of thy cheeks,
Down unto my own feet,
That had plodded a course in tragedy.
I have made echoes with each faltering step.
It is because I feel a chorus
That leaps into my chest.
All notes, a score that is emotionless,
Instruments that give no life,
And eyes from a woman who has
Only the need to offer death.
Is such your becoming comfort?
And the notes of melancholy that are not
My own becoming?
I might not ever raise myself from
This faltering where I descend.
You have beauty that I cannot mold.
Each path has made a burning before me,
A burning, and a path behind that is no longer true.
I cannot see behind to the faces of yesterday.
For you are there to hear me say,
“I am nothing without the faceless serenade,
And the music that speaks volumes of empty pages.”
Where are the lights to our decay?
Where is the place for us to stay?