The greatest form of self-torture,
is not the inflicting of bodily pain,
for when eyes see but pain’s allure,
blood runs into a glass of champagne.
No! Not even Hamlet’s curse,
could plunge your soul into a fiery chamber.
When a poet savours the bitter rain,
his toxic heart blooms still bluer.
The greatest form of self-torture,
is artistry fated to breed an outcast,
denied by those resentful murmurs,
by His self-loathing, His wistful heart.
Faraway, with sinking steps he paced,
the dreary sky watches over this land.
Lost, his spirit with the woods interlaced,
his heart grieves for a forsaken name.
In a whirlpool, with all his might he swims,
deeper he plunges into the gleaming abyss.
The livid air blankets this earthly brim,
tears suffocate in a self-consuming flame.
Heroic drums from a distance he hears,
reminiscent of a dream in quicksand.
Her glory or pain, neither he bears,
for a freed note is save a scarring bliss.
How shall he fall around a cursed sphere?
What beauty lies in this mortal errand?
When youthful valour has grown into fear,
when songs only memories shall understand.
