I write for the souls of the memories
Buried in my chest,
Budding their way through the underground tunnels
Of what is and what used to be.
Reality knows not the form in which
A dancer must bend,
A painter must stroke,
And a writer must busily shape otherwise black stains
Into feelings imperceptible by our pale-skinned eyes.
While the rules set forth by man press my cheek
To the iron mesh molds of what must and must not be,
My words slip their way through and find
A sanguine-tainted world of what
Will never be understood
And only sung of.