As I walked through the palace of Erie death,
my heart skips a beat,
waiting for him to show,
for my love is a ghost,
of the past,
left in a dreary state,
unknown to the man,
who holds the key to my unrepairable heart,
no matter how many stitches,
it still bleeds,
with pain from the death of any other,
my hair bleached red,
from the blood seeping through scrapes,
like prisoned light escaping through walls,
but as I walk through the ball,
the lights flash with the beat of memories,
the parties thrown in a vain,
attempt to calm,
the savage raging beats