Searching for a way to impress the gentleness of my lonely and sad existence, a skill to hone, so I'll never be self-injury prone, so I'll no longer get blood on my stress-made throne,
on my pain-forged globe, on my darkness-engorged tone of soul.
Because the rhythm of my heart breaks and halts, starts and rushes, beats to an off tune distant sound, a victorious growl, or a teary screech,
beacause of all of this my heart is torn between two planes, of victory and joy and one of plain pain.
And the tension is building still, waiting to unite with my lyre's thrill, with my pyre's chill with my lord's sin, with my life's only killer,
the stress of knowing that the tunes might end any day.