Mourn for the loss to the missing underneath
Doth they ever see the clean snow fallen
Embrace their names as I yeald them out
Or in shame bury the dead into the frozen ground
Insane became they still after decays
Swanlakes drying out for us to yearn

Arise from the ground and stand up to this
A so called dream for poets and artists
Who never understod the work they took
inside from their embittered hearts
They elaid the words they believed inside

Eleanor...come and show your dance
Cassandra...frustrate us by becoming united
with sirens so cold and seraphims so calm
Is this drama dead inside as I'm afraid?

A meaningless act to embitter the weak
The first lines forgotten by the clown
who saw the beauty in his own death
Decleared sorrow for this unpure macabre dance
Unite these two to walk through the corridors
Where the diva lies dead...

Dead...insane...alone with silence so old

Embitter the poet with laughing tender fools
Withering to see their broken hopes
as the swanlake now dries again

So as I wrote it down with this blooded quill
I rest down to serve the dream I act to be real

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