Compassion Without Satisfaction Her crown of hair was bent and crying, The brutal wind her tears was drying. Her weak body was crooked and shaking, Her heart had been left aching. The broken saint she has become Has lead her into unknown glum. The elegant lady steals the night, Kicking at the water, but losing the fight. She falls next to the waterbed, Begging and begging for a sweet behead. The broken light of the stars, Were outlined by the butts of cheap cigars. Numerous sleepless nights she chokes, Losing sanity, losing hopes. Strands of green were falling out, Her compassion remained in drought. Search for a solution thereof, you say? Her love was lost, either way. With devotion ending in murder, She could not depict her strange disorder. Bighting at her lips to taste the blood, She made her tear ducts flood and flood. As deadly as her love became, Her legacy would just detrain. Her pale hands the grass would grasp, As her weeping her soul would rasp. She overcame death, yet she was still weak, Playing dangerous games with fate up by the creek. She bit her tongue, she rolled the dice Lullabying into many lies. The element of compassion she became, Was driving the emerald lady insane. If love was forbidden, then so was #life; Dice is the fate and the truth is the knife.