Love is a dream, but a few never wake.
At worst, a tragedy; at best, mistake.
Many lonely souls await this death,
Yet cling to their final breath
In fear that what lies on the other side
Might cause the dead to rise
With cruel vengeance and mighty swords
And declare themselves lords
Of their minds and their hearts
When the bleeding starts.
Oh, how alive they ought to feel
Once they find something so real
That they could die in the mystery
of their blissful misery.