Like sunlight on winterskin, Such is the pleasure he brings. Down, down, down... to the High-pitched sound of insect-like Buzzing machines. Will he be waiting for me? Bottles of ink and parchments Of glory, all testify to the Intricate story that slowly unfolds In my mind...- How could I not bath him in light? Yet, true is the heart that asks For nothing in return. I can't tell him how I feel, Just abandon all hope as I lean back And close my eyes...- There are scars in the evening sky. Green is the light of the Healing heart... or the demon That tears you apart. Down, further down. to the Ever soothing sound Of busily humming machines. He had not been waiting for me. The autumn-flower of spring Knows that hope is a terrible thing. Content with what little may come, His hands are warm like the sunlight Dancing on pale winterskin...- I cherish the pleasure he brings To me.