Within one life of prior viewing,
I once could see beauty
Before myself, with all its liveliness.
I once saw a woman with darkest hair and darkest eyes,
I once saw herself adorned in garments of black,
I once saw her in pallid skin, readied for kisses.
And I see myself now, painted in a mask,
Of defeat and grief.
How has it comes to this?
Among all denial I’ve given to all else,
I’ve given all of denial to this.
Neither of us were to blame,
For what you’ve become.
I have nothing but the rose,
Empty of petals,
Nothing but the white stem.
Nothing but the grief
Has it in for me,
Nothing but the music of shame,
Has a love for me.
Nothing but the birds and broken wings,
Where they used to fly freely.