It's funny how a story starts
Without an end in mind
But most of all the power it yields;
The capability to bind
You to a single bookshelf
Until it's done and dusted
Although the memories will remain
Of that person in whom you trusted
A mistake of youth,
But the sixth sight
Will haunt you mechanically
Day and night
Alone you stand,
Quite solitary
And feign the mentality
Of a missionary
If truth be told
You're still on that page
You build yourself
A neural cage
Through which you may have once crawled out
As he did not deserve
The benefit of the doubt
Again, once more, the cycle spins
Governed by the hand of hope
Which wins
Over logical reasoning
And the fluttering pages
That will stay blank and untraced
Throughout all ages
In past, present and future alike
Still, the beast yearns for
A final strike
Since it knows me to
My very seams
And fishes for him
In my dreams
It sees the lies
Which I paint true
Yet no one could ever love him
As I do