In the forests of my mind a memory is lost,

Hidden beneath the fallen leaves of weeping autumn.

And then the winter solemnly doses the sky with a barely translucent symphony.

With the plucking of branches and the bellowing of swollen caves my voice is minute,

Hardly a whisper but much like a bleeding chant.

And these consistent emotions caress the darkness that orbits near the hollow of my soul,

Filling me to the brim.

You never told me the stories about what it was like to remember.

You never told me about the stories about what justice it was to forget.

Spilling within the lines and beneath the colors is something enchanting--

A fervent melody that commits but a feverish crime.

And with your lips upon my forehead I am gifted a deal of thought.

And with your lips upon the tip of my nose I am given warmth to what was cold.

And with your lips upon my lips I have forgotten the tragedies that I was told.