How could all Discover where I call? I am merely two inches buried in my grave, In my Hell, In my storm. There is abounding scenery Displaced from this world, Of bones, Crosses, Fields lined with dead mice. She left a teardrop to my empty hand, Drawing herself away From my distant mind. Now when emptiness is to me, To my heart, There is the world, worn apart. She is the remnants of me, Frozen on the tantrums I expel From my open mouth. Love is a single cent too many, Too much, Too little. The light she holds onto Is betterment for a bright summer, Away from the paradise, I called winter. For above her keen eyes Is a star blossomed in the skies. I wish to bow, Though I cannot allow Myself, to be gone from darkness.