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

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

I am the autumn,
Boss of red and gold...

Till death do us part?
Well kill me now...

Friends say it’s written on my face,
That I only really deeply care for him...

Blurred eyes and hollow soul,
Stumbling to and from the sink...

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...

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