• Ah, the heart, the most Hateful Opressor!
    Lover of beauty, but most Vile Rejector!
    Why, i must inquire, do you fill me with hope,
    Only to then beat me with those things more powerful than sticks and stones?

    Is it but a hopeless dream, to be contented?
    To the foolish poets of the world, a false dream, unrelented?
    Or is it a truth, ever so fair,
    That lies far out of reach, as if trying to grasp the air?

    Is there any surcease from this sorrow,
    as the man with the Raven sought to borrow?
    Shall there ever be a hope for life?
    Or shall the heart cut it down with its Pain and Strife?