Tragedies bestill our lives
like rain and sand and wind
and wastes us down in simple time--
How can we live?

And love is so unstable;
nothing matters anymore.
But oh, what for? The words I used
produced no fruit.

Awakened from a dream,
I am disturbed by cryptic-crimson words
that spill a tale of awkward love.
Oh here it goes again...

Tell me then, why do I always go
in circles back to those
I cannot have, that do not want me
anymore.

I feel a pang of anguish
hit my stomach, and then return
to my heart, from whence it came.
Oh bitter irony.

Is nothing fair to those
who must beg escape from demons?
The dead throw alms at those who
need them more than they.