I remember all the silence in presenceI remember the scene, i never like the closureI remember your eyes of insults ignoredI remember the abstract of crueltyI remember when the missed speaksI remember the irreplaceable victimizeI remember the dried commitmentsI remember the aesthetic shadowsI remember love turns to dustI remember when the skies cryI remember the salt airI remember your whispers that haunts meI remember he is lost in the memoryI remember youre not mine like a wineI remember back in December of coldsI remember in November of ghosts
I hate you,The words haunting me againI know i'd go back to youI hate you,The scars that's still leftI know i'd go back to youI hate you,Pictures of sands i walk throughI know i'd go back to youI hate you,Whenever i sing, its like i can hear youI know i'd go back to youI hate you,Im here at the tears of ocean deepI know i'd go back to youI hate you,
I maybe not perfectBut I will do my bestIf something went wrongJust come & tell me.If I may say noThat means I protected you& We can talk about.If I may say yesThat means I know what's good enoughNot the best.If I can't like your partnerThat means I've seen something suspicious& We can talk.If your upset about me, friends & loveCome near me& Talk about
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.