What fiend has caressed my shoulders,
Besides the loneliness, I feel within my heart?
It is yet a monster, without the need to sleep,
Without the will to heal.
She lays there, for my eyes to behold her presence,
For my view, for my corrupt and trembling hand,
To mimic her dashing and golden figure,
Upon the life I aim to create, from the white.
Out of porcelain, I sculpt her form,
To never feel the expression to my heart, lovelorn.
A wilderness for me to see, in her heart,
In her presence,
In her glow.
In her eyes,
From the snow.
From the wildness of her,
I breathe life into this plaster and paint,
And etch her eyes, that behold cries,
And etch her arms, that could embrace.
And though, I would lay a kiss, upon the redness to her lips,
There could be no sigh released, no love to breathe.
No misery to ever be quelled, from my aching bosom.
A figure of white, and fewest colors, is all I’ve constructed
From my loneliness.
From my frailty,
I have mimicked only myself,
Unto this place I’ve called a dynasty.
A drop of paint,
Or a smear,
Will not hold,
Up to my tears.