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...

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

I asked every morning until
It arrived...

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

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

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

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

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

Life is dark
A cloudy sky...

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