On this poem
I write the tears...

That forgotten feeling,
When memories can only be held so close...

May it be a task as to forgive,
Something so hard makes it easy to live...

The look in your eye,
saying I'm lonely and I'm about to die...

At eighteen years of age
Contemplating the possibilities...

We awake to the warm embrace of daylight,
Slumbering in depths of the cold dark night...

We have a mystery with nothing to hide,
I have a beacon, my nocturnal guide...

In my coffin
I have my rose...

Two ton doors stand still with a wavier.
With floors still moving it gives life a new...

In our sick world of final hours,
Preventing our scars...