This hand that wounds to risk the sin,
And free the blood beneath the skin,
A trembling gasp of poisoned air,
That speaks of shame, and scars to bare.

A titan's frame, and angel's face,
Are burned and black with dark disgrace,
Another time, another breath,
That flees the howl of roaring death.

No comfort found in lover's eyes,
They pray for hope, but prayer dies,
A blazing trail, that swiftly charts
The forest of their broken hearts.

Their cries of anguish, cries of lust,
Their cries unheard, for all is dust,
By maker's hands that lay to waste,
And turn away in callous haste.

A starving rose, that never grows,
Though fed by twilight passion's throes,
Another breathless whispered name
Will ask for tears, they never came.

The hateful ring of shattered glass,
A scream of rage, a broken mass
Of manhood's flesh that wrath incurred,
The price of one malignant word.

A man who'll kiss his lover's eye,
And cradle softly, should she cry,
Can not be filled, can not be whole,
And no one hears his screaming soul.

An icy path, so cold and grey,
Is trod upon, day after day,
And leads to endless frozen slopes,
Where lie the bones of ancient hopes.