About A Long, Dark Alley
My footsteps echo in hollow sounds;
Confused, uncertain, laden with pain
Why must I die too often to believe
There could be such thing of beauty.
A heart when trodden to half a death
Can seek no more, shall speak no more
Of passion and delight, of enchantment and intimate insight.
The memory of shadows and receding footfalls
Scars it to a song in a dying afterglow.