The rose black and dying lay on the bed,
He pouts on his leather jacket and lace up his boots,
grabbing the rose he heads to the door,
then turns and picks up pieces of a shattered mirror.
He walks slowly through the warm night air,
with every step he remembers what was lost,
meany lifetimes ago he was but a man,
and he was in love with a angel.
This was before the curse was set upon him,
in that dark moment of primal lust all was lost.
With the growing darkness the angel flow away,
before she was consumed in his darkness,
or swallow up in is pain.
But this is a distance memory when he still knew joy,
before he was engulf in this hunger,
this love that only creates pain.
He walks through the night to that lonely grave,
he places the glass and rose on the grave,
and one black tear falls from his eye.
We fall to ashes in a blaze of self and selfLessNess
In the Death of magic we die,
When the spirit stop their little whispers we give in to the voices in our heads,
Eyes closed and like stone we see no more,
The world and our self become like stone,
unMoving cold and dead,
In this moment the troll is born,
Dark old stone, unFeeling unCaring,
Sucking on the bones of Heros long dead.