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.