The somber and forlorn notes escape our lips,
With lost loves and dreams binding them so,
A terribly beautiful song they make,
And though we sing it, so few ever really know.
For the songs sung in silence,
Are screamed in agony,
The art drawn in the dark,
Has more than one could hope to see,
The poems written in bloody script,
Are invisible to the naked eye,
And its always hope one will see,
The truth under the artistic lie.