A love sonnet
written in the blood
of my Muse,
long deceased.
your bloody wrists
paint a picture
of perfect love
perfect pain.
Tears, now frozen,
cleansed my hollow soul
that I might have been
as pure as you.
You begged me not to
but I had no choice.
In what you had given me
I knew
that it would come to pass.
And the masterpiece
of our love
would mean your death.
