The water dries within me; As the ashes of passion, Slowly fled away from the poet Yet, the scarlet drips on her heart; Never had stopped from spilling What a stubborn heart she had; It was merely beating but "Pen is a sword" As her hand becomes the sheath, Of the rusty heavy rapier on her hand She died a little but she mourned for survival She wrote and died after reading, The poem she made for herself She picks up those broken pieces, She wants to make it until the end With no other choice; She made another masterpiece In her mind, she asked, "How will this Neverland take place at Graceland?" Then she suddenly realized, "It will never take place at Grace if it's all in chaos" The silence of realization is perfectly incandescent Her muted and unrhymed cries Was a crime she only committed to herself She walked down on a memory lane Forgetting the boundary of silver lining To raise her spirit is something she cannot do She rake herself over the coals She bestowed upon the ground But she said, "It wouldn't work, so why would I?" She cursed upon to the letter she wrote; "It's a masterpiece but I was beyond living"