Trash of History.

It isn't the inception of the doubt, you leave me feeling wasted.
Your words slide off and slither into everything I've already lost.
I'm there in the beginning of your heart in his hands.
I get to be an audience of what we used to have.
I've got a list with numbers, the never ending possibilities.
With who I am and who I was and what we'll never be.
Saddens I, who wonders when this sickness will be lost to me.
Such a hurtful remedy, to give up what you have claimed so easily.
The butchers bail, the wasted nail, the trash of history.
Yet I fell so far below that trash can neither define thee.
One goal ahead, one road transgressed; left for yesterday.
I pity the love I felt for all of each and every tear.
Cried over fortunes and lust and every bitter symphony.
An island, a castle of a fortress so far from me.
The prince that found you, but a rat of a poets illiteracy.
High up upon the hill I stain with guilt and feigned oblivion.
As the shadow upon a white room I choose not to see.
All of everything you always could of meant for me.