Stranger In The Bedroom Down The Hall

Oh how I long for your touch,

The once again sweet facade of your voice,

Little girl surrounded by a lonesome world,

Death you did not grasp although sometimes,

I wander,

If it would have been for the better,

So much pain surrounds me,

So much pain for the loss of you,

The loss of air surrounds my lungs,

Gripping life like oil on a summer's grill,

Grief is a monster to those consumed by death,

Yet the jaws of its vindictiveness are much greater,

When the loss is acquired by the living.

Not the little girl I once knew,

Void of blue eyes and innocent smiles,

Crying away the day,

Dreaming of pain in the night,

Sweet water falling down bruised cheeks,

Coating the rivers of ruin,

Surely you must see your reflection,

In the mirrors of your past,

Must long for the joy the content,

The truth and honestly of a beautiful present.

How hearts ache for damned,

Suffering in their own private Hell,

Heat of flames only to burn brighter than,

The spark of unspoken unrelinquished pain,

Grieve attaches to the living in the absence,

Of more living; leaking true death,

Silent tears and no bouquets of flowers,

For the stranger in the bedroom down the hall.