The Canvas Muse

You watch as the canvas muse unfurls;
her tresess long and dark.
The night, moonlit,
and there's a thorn prick in your heart.
The canvas muse unfolds;
to me her tears are still warm.
The time is too little,
the story too long.
Is love unsaid stronger is love wrote aloud not real?
The things left unspoken, they don't rhyme much,
but that's just the way you feel.
The sound of a familiar chime,
the lost verse the same old rhyme.
The canvas muse will soon find,
that time is short, there's a lie that binds.
Why can't she be mine?

Thorn pricks...

You cut yourself to see,
If you bleed like everyone else.
And you find out that you do,
only more, so much more.
And you die of the love,
and you love of the pain.
And you hate this chord,
but you play it all the same.
If she told you that she loved you,
would you walk all the way.