Behind this pleasant portrait lies such exquisite sin.
A mask of time melting tears of ice, shifting shape by moon.
Discovering loneliness alone, my life in a box amongst a trove of sorrow forlorn.
My title unbeknown to me, unable to speak my name.
My skin is not my own, yet I wish to be another.
To claim a pain as woeful as I, therein my chest lays bare.
Shivered, living rot am I, paint that shall never cure.
The halls of my mind are a maddening find.
There being no door out, being there a face of haunting.
If my heart be half, my mind alike, and my soul.
What else, what else than this melancholy horror.
For what is as sombre than a poet that does not rhyme.