Is solitude the only way,
in which we heal though we dismay
what lies into each other's tangling veins?
Is solitude all that remains?

And does it fill each empty space,
does it surpass by far every embrace
with fragile souls that breath alike?
Do we await it's vicious strike?

And seems as love will rest in feeble hands like ours
still grasping on our first and final hours,
but is it luck, or faith, or worse?
Is love nothing more than our curse?

Where does it lead the blind and meek,
who lost in dreams so anxious seek
neither forgiveness, nor compassion?
Are we but stupid victims of our passion?

The answers, though they seem so clear
are but the shallow voices which we seek to hear,
to vanquish torment from our empty heart
as all reality so slowly breaks apart.

We'll be but fragments in this bitter end
and most of all I fear that you and I my friend
will be no more than empty shells without a reason
and love will be no more than our wretched prisson.