Stabbed with an icicle to tare me apart,
Fire held in my chest-flames at his wrist...

So it’s late once more,
Three? Four? I can’t tell for sure...

It issues from your lips
At the second of final despair...

Sick of all this writhing agony,
Im tired of all this sharpened pain...

All the heat and fire and flame
Coursing through my every vein...

I asked every morning until
It arrived...

It has an old fasioned way of writing throughout...
Dear...

My worst nightmares coming true
Im trying to move on...

Help me I beg
Don’t pass me by again...

Life is dark
A cloudy sky...

Death calls to the middle aged man,
He’s sick of life’s pointless fight...

I’d sit in my room fiery but ever placid,
Wishing I knew a kindred shadow...