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Behold the gallery of love's souvenirs

Behold the proof it wasn't just a dream

My mind is a museum of things held dear

My bones, a mausoleum for my grief

Somehow I lived a decade each passing year

A child chasing love through high esteem

No resting on my laurels, there's just die or win

Sequestered in the dark, afraid to be

So bury me

There is no poetry

In rotting away in bed

Rotting in my regrets

I wish I knew what came before these castle walls

I wish I could remember how to be

But in the winding darkness of those chasmal halls

There's not a single echo left of me

So bury me

There is no poetry

In rotting away in bed

Rotting in my regrets

Define the line

Where loathing and longing lie

Where I flinch from touch

Where I crave too much

Paralysed in crumbling foundations

Captured by ghosts of speculations

Trapped in time cadavers keep the score

Ashamed in desperation

In throes of trepidation

A flight of preservation

A blight upon my heart

Love's souvenir

Contritus es ultra determinatio

Numquan satris erit

Mundus melius sine

Bury me

There is no poetry

In rotting away in bed

Rotting in my regrets

Define the line

Where loathing and longing lie

Where I flinch from touch

Where I crave too much