Tom Riddle III

Death is the passion

that your self-lost soul craves.

Your death is the souvenir

of childhood that was

so cruelly taken away from you.

When no one hears,

you cry,

huddled in your heart,

in the heart hidden from life

in a thick shell.

Cruel sadness disfigures

your beautiful face,

lonely thoughts line up for hell.

You wish that the pain

that traps you

in its paradise

would turn out to be madness

that you never deserved.

The insomnia that has crept into

arms of distance

will forever remain a stain

on your delicate skin.

Resurrected from suffering,

you nurse this wound

that you will never be able

to forget.

I know you could love.

However,

loneliness stole your heart.