The Song Without a Name
Pain is the heart of men, the heart of women, the heart of gold; beautiful ruin is the bliss of youth, those with aching bones and sunken eyes.
His name was forgotten in the pages of love notes, now yellow and cast to the wind. Love destroys all, the hopes of fathers are null in the candle light of dawn; all that arises is the victorious midnight on a chariot of words; words of disgust cloak themselves in candy, the candied hearts of remorse and vicious affections.
I would have loved him as I do now but sunken eyes tell a story that could not yield a thousand words; the broken tongues of the joyful mock daily as the windows flash death across the sky of the blissful evening, howling their wicked love songs in the mirror of the moon.
There is one word that can't be named. Like an unspeakable disease, the disdain of night falls gentle into the fertile wombs of the evening star, now black and withered like the loves of my age.
The immortal deaths and dishonors reel happily in the face of love, laughing joyously and filling their shadows with seeds of envy. The warmth of a mother is unheeded by the trails of life and life's teachings. Only the violent tempers are left alive as innocence withers in the womb and no one will ever know it's name.