IRC-Galleria

"Seven lonely lies written on dead winters night.
Open the only book with the only poem I can read.
In blood I sign my name
and seal the midnight with a tear.
Burn the paper, every line, for them I cried...

...

The words I write can only hurt me,
sorry for the rain.
Thank you my only one,
you gave me this pain.
I leave you gently on the floor,
take one step towards the door.
Where's that letter never written,
good night now..."