I turned my sinews into strings
And strung the wood to make it sing
The song that never could be sung
By you - your mother's spitful son!
Your face was sutured with a thread
As if they would have sewn a doll.
Still hope the scar adorns your face.
But who can suture my burst soul?!
I healed myself with a guitar
Injecting notes into my veins
And haze of music filled my heart,
Erased the face I've loved so far.
To My Darling Hypocrite
© Copyright: Колдунья Сумрачных Болот, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111102609223
Свидетельство о публикации №111102609223
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