Brought to you by the Goth-O-Matic poetry generator, for Ken: He who’se smile taunteth me, who’se eyes flash with bitter mockery, who’se back hair singeth a siren’s song (and does the wave… it’s disturbing, but cool.)

Devoid of Love

the night falls without a sound, soulless are we.
the salvation for which you sacrifice yourself
flares once, then dies,
smothered by your obsession.
all hope must sicken and die.

your passion throbs no more.
how could you fail to believe?
angels surround us, crying,
save us from ourselves.

I die

Thank you, Goth-O-Matic… you said all the things I never could.
Well, I’m off to slit my wrists.