A sad fact I've learned to accept
is that the most beautiful eyes are the lonely eyes
of those people who want to cry.
When they forget the life
that they have lived
and the songs they never sang,
they know desire is wiser,
than feeling the fire
beneath that lonely noose from which they hang.
The fire serves it use.
It inspires one to dread the noose in their dreams;
the stitch in the seam.
But which is worse?
To live in fear of the day that your dream comes true?
Or to gasp for love
when there is no one
who has ever dreamed about standing by you?