Her heart, long and venomous was ever the sadness that chimed upon the strings. Could I? To stoop my head low to gift a kiss to her notes, would I then fade? As she, being the one who wishes to be vapor, I’d gather it in my lungs at this final leap.
Pioneered for the art of her suffering. Submerged as the dropped stem, I’d become, in the vast lakes of her soul. Then, to find her, could I ever bring her up?
What would the steps become? The mere walk, overboard, is enough to loosen me. Though, to take her from this bleeding state, can kill me. Carrying thorns from puddles, to the skies where open Heavens could be ours. Raising her from this rotten frame, sheltered as she’s been, by the old, nihilistic place of her decay. Impoverished by the din of time, of a few wails that carry her song through an outburst. Would the steps then overtake?
Falling through, as one wasted petal from the stigma of a rose, I could find something more alike. She’d be a raven, deep in of forested fables, doused however in the blood of her home. Half-way slain by the thickets. Thorns that have penetrated her flesh. And love would merely take the stain. Though, my own would drop her towards the latter half of her demise.