As I grew with thorns to my very face,
There was the skin of you,
Laced in the venom
Of a thousand ways to be lonely.
Painted by the pain, that grew up next to you
As another woman.
Love can only be pressed into your heart
By the Hell, that would never start
The flames, without my Heaven to bind the part
Between the two different infernos.
You stand there,
With an empty glare,
And one hand over your eyes,
Like the curtain that rains itself, freely
From the top of your delicate head,
And could pain ever find itself away?
You will not see me,
Not the man who yearned to see you nude,
Beneath blankets made of moss.
Your shame is your fame,
Not your pride.
For you are only ever wholesome, when you don’t have your way.
I have faced endless tides
Only to ever smile, when love draws in, for the while.