I can see your eyes veiled by mere helplessness
of the weird and unwanted selflessness.
Your body spreads in shadows,
my mind, by the mere thought of you, wallows.
And as dead as prisoner might look on its sentenced day,
your look, correspondent, shows no hope to find another way.
And as you struggle silently smothered, by unseen weight,
it is I who devoured you, it is I who your soul ate.
And although love is what I call my chant,
it is I who your devotion attain can’t.
And I lose you, without knowing
of the end of your graceful smile
and a ghoul of pure numbness
walks aimlessly for miles.
And although I can’t fix what my obsession has done,
and although I can’t ask for the past to come,
I have but one gratifying sensation…
that you the Prisoner of My Soul,
shall be a queen in my coronation.