In sentimentality I live.
In the mourning of life I reside.
I do not walk away from the deep rivers of loneliness.
Instead I embrace it.
I hold my hand as I walk the paths of lonesome.
Dear friend I am yours in love.
Dear friend I am yours in trust.
I walk with you knowing your despair, feeling your wounds, I hear your cry.
Dear friend I hold your hand. I feel your fingers. Cold.
In sentimentality I dwell as I let the salty tears paint my appearance.
I know nothing.
I hold on to nothing.
I am alone. In this truth my wounds flourish, my pain shines and the rivers are alive with an intense blackness that only pure light will recognize.
I hold your hand.