Creativity is not the rose you hold in your hands. It’s the gentle breeze that carries her sweet scent to you.

The memories have been sneaking up on me, trying to push me off the rail.

The crimson splendor running down my shoulder is how my soul will silently wail.

Here I am beneath the moon; her beauty soothes me with her light so pale.

She witnessed your guile and how you conspired when you perceived my heart was frail.

Listen to the beauty and sadness as it resonates

throughout this night and my soul;

as he throws back his head and opens

his soul and song to this winter moon.

Listen to the beauty and sadness as it resonates

throughout this night and my soul;

as he throws back his head and opens

his soul and song to this winter moon.